


Wake

by ealcynn



Series: The Hollows [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Awesome Sam Wilson, Brainwashing, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Depression, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Food Issues, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt/Comfort, Hydra (Marvel), Identity Issues, Mental Health Issues, Nonverbal Communication, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Panic Attacks, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Sign Language, Speech Disorders, Standard Winter Soldier Warnings, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing, Therapy, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark is not the bad guy, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Violence, Vomiting, selective mutism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:55:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 85,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25634641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ealcynn/pseuds/ealcynn
Summary: Steve’s heard people say that Captain America appeared in the future twice the man he had been before. That could be debated, of course, but it’s true that he’s still more or less whole. But Bucky...he arrived here fractured. It’s as if only a few fragments of him made the journey through those decades intact and the rest was shaken loose and left behind somewhere, scattered across time like shreds of cloth in a storm.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson
Series: The Hollows [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1717624
Comments: 188
Kudos: 315





	1. Asset

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sequel to Unquiet. It can probably be read independently but will make more sense if you read that first.
> 
> I'm posting this first chapter as a teaser, and in the hopes of recruiting a second beta - I already have one beta who's doing an amazing job, but I'm hyper anxious about this part of the project and would love a second viewpoint before I post too much more. Anyone interested or who can point me in the right direction, hit me up! (How do people find betas anyway?)
> 
> Anyway, the chapter. Buckle in, folks. It's going to get messy around here...

“Hey. You awake?”

Bucky blinks dry, gritty eyes.

It’s dark and cold, and he’s utterly disorientated. This isn’t the place he last remembers. Light seeps in - it’s not completely dark - but he’s inside. The floor beneath him is rocking and heaving, unsteadily. A transport of some kind, then.

He forces himself to sit up and tries to catalogue the odd sense of dislocation he’s feeling. There is pain throughout his body; sharper in his joints and a bone-deep ache in his torso and limbs. His head is throbbing. His skin feels like it’s trying to crawl off his bones, and his feet are freezing. He burrows a little deeper into the brown jacket spread across his chest and tries to force his hands to stop trembling.

“Bucky?” The black guy crouching over him is sounding a little concerned, so he shakes himself from his stupor.

“Yeah, I’m awake,” he says. “I’m okay.”

“You...uh…know who I am?”

“Yeah, ya idiot. I know who you are, Gabe. Little fuzzier on what happened though.”

“You, um. You had another fit.”

“Ah, shit.” Bucky grits his teeth and sighs. He clenches his shaking hands. “Fucking HYDRA.”

“Amen to that,” Gabe Jones agrees. “Listen, it wasn’t as bad as the last few times. Think those drugs must be wearing off at last. Cap wanted to get moving though, so we parked you up here in the van ‘till you’d slept it off. Do you want me to-”

“Hell no, I’m getting down,” Bucky stands, and wobbles to the back of the truck. Gabe moves aside and lets him jump down as it trundles along. His boots squelch into the thick mud as he lands. 

It’s gloomy, only just past dawn, with tree growth and cloud cover choking most of the light. The cold snaps at Bucky and he pulls the jacket on over his filthy shirt, longing for any fragment of warmth. The truck rumbles away at walking speed. Gabe is still looking at him funny.

“Not ridin’ useless in the back of a damn truck,” Bucky snaps. “Not while there’s still HYDRA assholes on our tail."

“Sure, Sarge."

"Where’s Steve?”

Gabe nods to the road ahead. "Cap’s leading the column.”

They fall in beside some of the other men in their ragged line, heading west.

“Hey,” Buck hates to ask but he’s so hungry he can’t really think straight. “You guys got any chow round here?”

Gabe shakes his head, ruefully. “Sorry. The Cap, Morita and that British major busted into a watch station that we passed by last night but the Kraut bastards had even less than we do. The Frenchies who know the area reckon we’re maybe seven miles from the line though, so we might make it over before dark.”

Bucky scowls. “Can’t believe that knucklehead raided another Nazi outpost without me.”

“Don’t worry,” Gabe says, with a grin. “We didn’t keep all the fun for ourselves. Here, got some smokes. Dum Dum shook out a few pockets for you.” In the gloom, the two cigarettes he holds out for Bucky glow ghostly white.

“Mary, mother of God...”

Gabe offers him a light, and then the taste of the smoke is rolling across his tongue and into the back of his throat as he inhales. The burn of that comforting warmth fills up his lungs from top to bottom as his head starts to spin and it’s as if this is the first true breath he has taken in months.

“I take it all back,” Bucky says, dreamily. “Dum Dum Dugan is nothin’ but a gentleman, a paragon of virtue in a cruel and heartless world.”

“Jeez, Sarge,” mutters Gabe. “You _are_ a cheap date.”

“Come on.” Bucky pulls the jacket closed, takes another long drag of his smoke, and pulls a hand through his hair. “Let’s find Steve. I want a really big gun.”

* * *

70 years later

* * *

“Hey. You awake?”

The Soldier opens its eyes. Everything is gloomy, lights turned low. It blinks several times just to bring the pale walls into focus. It is lying on its back, but is too tired to move much. It feels thin and hollowed-out. There are two people standing to its right, and one to its left; a tall black man, smiling through bruises and bandages on his face.

“Winter?” the man prompts.

“Affirmative,” The Soldier states. 

“Do you remember what happened? You know who I am?” the man asks.

“Sam Wilson,” The Asset confirms.

“You can just call me Sam, you know. That’s fine.”

The Asset asks, “What is the mission status?”

“We were attacked on the way to New York. A HYDRA team blew up the car, but we made it out. Things got a little dicey, but the important thing is we’re safe now. How are you feeling? You hurting anywhere?”

“Function impaired,” the Asset says. “Nutrients required.”

“Your doctor here and the nurses are working on that,” Sam says. “They just want to help, okay? Remember that they’re not here to hurt you and try not to be frightened. Look, I’m sorry I can’t stay for long, but I’ll be back in a few hours. You look cold. You’ve got Steve’s jacket there still, you can wear that if you want.”

The Soldier processes this. “Where is Captain Rogers?”

“Steve?” says the man, looking surprised. “He’s, ah...just getting looked over by the medics. I’m sure he’ll be fine. I’ll bring some more clothes next time I come. You need anything else?”

“I need a fuckin’ smoke,” the Asset says.

Sam Wilson stares and stares. And then he laughs.

It doesn’t last. The dream - the memory, James Barnes’s memory - slips from its head and it is left empty again. The Asset hovers on the surface of static. The White Coats pass in and out of its vision, and it can mostly ignore them. Occasionally, one touches the body, clinically, impersonally, like they are preparing it for the ice, and the Soldier’s thoughts power down. It reboots maybe minutes later, maybe hours, maybe years. It thinks it remembers Sam Wilson here, speaking and reassuring, but neither of its current Handlers are present now. Maybe it has already been through the ice and perhaps it has been _decades_ and everyone is dead. Maybe they wiped it so hard it forgot even that.

The med techs have gone, and it is alone, shackled, helpless and full of pain.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay safe out there, friends.


	2. Sam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Generously beta'd for me by [theAsh0](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theAsh0/pseuds/theAsh0), [Thepracticalheartmom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thepracticalheartmom/pseuds/Thepracticalheartmom), and [Lightsider](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightsider/pseuds/Lightsider). All mistakes and poor decisions remain my own.

It’s evening and Sam is sitting by Steve’s hospital bed again - and isn’t _that_ starting to become a concerning trend - when Stark’s AI supercomputer JARVIS interrupts Marvin Gaye to announce that Sergeant Barnes is finally awake.

Sam has no idea what to expect now. The Winter Soldier has spent the 42 hours after Hawkeye’s arrow put him down either blissfully unconscious or completely catatonic. That was more than enough time for the former SHIELD agents in their quinjets to ship them all safely back to Stark Tower, for Steve and Sam to get whisked away for medical treatment, and for Barnes to be immediately confined to a ‘panic room’ under the tower’s lower basement. Panic room sounds better than ‘reinforced detention cell’ but not by much. 

Sam hasn’t seen Barnes at all during those two days because _hello_ concussion, but he has tried to keep up to date. Mostly because, with Steve still completely out of it, people keep coming to him for decisions about Barnes’ care, which isn’t exactly fair because _hello concussion_ . But there’s some calls Sam is very willing to make, and the first is to demand that Hill gets a proper medical team for Barnes. Even if the guy somehow miraculously supersoldiered his way through the car crash and fight unscathed, he still at the very least needs fluids, an NG tube, wound dressings, blood tests and personal care like _yesterday_. Sam won’t put up with him and Steve lying around in this cushy medical ward Stark apparently had built specifically for the Avengers, not while he knows Barnes is locked up and hurting. Hill, of course, gets it done, though there’s obvious concerns about the safety of any doctors being sent in there with the Winter Soldier. As long as he’s unconscious though they can make it work, and within a few hours Hill assures Sam that, physically at least, Barnes is stable and being treated the best they can.

Sam’s still kind of itching to see for himself though, so the moment JARVIS calls to say Barnes is awake - properly awake and not just catatonic - Sam persuades his own doctor that he’s fit to be discharged and heads straight down to the basement level. He’s kind of surprised not to find a crowd of SHIELD agents or high-level national security-types interrogating their prisoner; instead, there’s just two standard Stark Industries private security guards loitering in the hall outside. Sam’s seen what the Soldier is capable of, and two guards just doesn’t seem like enough. JARVIS, who seems to be installed in every room in the building and as far as Sam can tell knows _literally_ everything, had previously informed him that this panic room had been built to contain other “ _volatile individuals who might need somewhere to decompress”_. Sam’s not an idiot, and knowing the room is probably Hulk-proof makes him feel slightly better about their chance of safely containing the Winter Soldier in it. At least it explains the excessive height of all the doors down here. 

But the only possible answer for the lack of CIA agents or top brass army officials must be that somehow the capture of the Winter Soldier has been kept under wraps. That, or no-one really quite knows what to do with Bucky Barnes. He’s been dead for 70 years. He’s both a captured terrorist assassin and a rescued, injured prisoner of war. He’s a national hero. He’s a traitor. It’s the perfect moral and legal shade of grey, the likes of which SHIELD had apparently excelled at. If SHIELD hadn’t just gone up in a puff of smoke.

The guards search Sam thoroughly for anything that could even vaguely be considered a weapon, and he does notice that they are at least packing some pretty big guns. It’s something of a comfort. 

As he is waved on through the door to the cell’s observation room, it would be fair to say Sam’s feeling more than a little concerned about what state Barnes is going to be in. He can’t really remember much of the HYDRA attack on the road. His debriefing with Hill had been woefully inadequate – he’d heard a loud bang, smelled explosives and something like rusted metal, and then had woken up lying in a ditch, covered in blood and six-foot-two-inches of American hero. Steve had yelled something and disappeared into the smoke, so, naturally, Sam had followed. His Glock had been lying on the grass nearby; he’d snatched it up on his way past, and followed the sound of screaming. He’d shot at a group of figures aiming their guns at a blue blob that was probably Steve, and then he doesn’t remember anything more until a former SHIELD medic was flashing a penlight in his eyes. Then, there had been the brief but disorientating flight to Stark Tower strapped to a spinal board, and then everything had passed in a blur of can-you-tell-me-what-year-is-it and CT scans.

Steve, when he came round after the surgery and his own CT, had filled in the rest – Barnes’ attempts to deceive the HYDRA agents that the two of them were dead, the car exploding, the fight, and then finally the enemy agent’s dying words which had flipped a switch in Barnes’ head from ‘Bucky’ to ‘Fist of HYDRA’ faster than the blink of an eye. It sounded from Steve’s medical chart like the Soldier had come damn near close to beating Steve to death. Who knew how he’d respond if he saw Steve again? Reports say that Barnes has been passive and quiet so far, apart from one solitary incident of violence when one unfortunate nurse had touched the metal arm. The Winter Soldier had casually broken the man’s nose and then gone straight back to staring wordlessly at the ceiling. Hill and Stark had been leery enough about allowing civilian medical staff into the room with an unrestrained and unsedated Winter Soldier, and that incident almost had them pull the plug on the whole thing. But it’s the medical team themselves who had insisted on staying. They had all been fully briefed on the danger before they’d walked in and they weren’t stopping now. Hill increases their security detail to four armed agents, but there haven’t been any more incidents. In fact, as long as no-one goes near the prosthetic, the medical and security staff don’t even seem to register on Barnes’ mental landscape at all. Sam supposes Barnes has been subjected to so much medical treatment against his will over the years that it is something he doesn’t even notice anymore. Sam decides not to air that theory in front of Steve. 

Sam watches through the window of the observation room while a nurse and doctor flit around the hospital bed standing in the middle of the massive room. Barnes seems, remarkably, no worse than he did before they’d got blown up, particularly in comparison to his two minders – Sam with his concussion and broken wrist, Steve with yet another couple of gunshot and stab wounds, a punctured spleen and healing jaw fracture, and both of them suffering from smoke inhalation and whiplash. Sam can see Barnes lying on the white sheets and despite his lack of new injuries, he looks pale, almost shocky, eyes open and unseeing. 

Eventually the medical team finish up. Sam gets a quick update from the lead doctor, the efficient, no-nonsense Dr Sunil Patel, and then JARVIS buzzes Sam in through the door to the panic room itself. He isn’t sure if Barnes recognises him when he leans over the bed, but the guy responds promptly, relevantly and in English. He’s clutching Steve’s worn leather jacket still in his right hand, and then he even asks about Steve, which is a good sign. The strange cussing and demand for cigarettes is new too, and Sam wonders if he’s encountered a flash of the real Bucky Barnes for the first time, and what memory brought it out. He quite likes the guy.

Steve too is awake when Sam gets back up to the medical centre on Floor 83, but is not reassured to hear that Barnes is recovering. He pretty much begs Sam to get back down there and not to leave Barnes alone. It seems SHIELD’s betrayal in DC has not done much for Steve’s trust issues. Sam thinks it unlikely that Barnes would be spirited away in the night, not now that Stark and Maria Hill are apparently calling the shots around here. But like he’d told Fury, Sam’s a soldier not a spy, so what does he know? 

He wearily heads back down to the lower levels for a date with the observation room outside Barnes’ cell, a ham sandwich, a double-shot coffee, and another sleepless night. It’s gone 2am by now, and it seems pretty clear that, despite being in a tower with thousands of other people, Sam is going to be the only one up watching Barnes every night ‘till Steve is back on his feet. It’s like the cabin all over again. He settles down in a surprisingly comfortable plastic chair, but within a few minutes he’s already yawning. JARVIS’s voice floats down from the ceiling. 

_“Mister Wilson, there are numerous guest rooms in the Tower. I can assign one to you if you wish to get some rest.”_

“I’m good, thanks.” Sam awkwardly declines. “Gotta keep an eye on Barnes in case he freaks out or something. I’ll be fine.”

JARVIS doesn’t argue, even though it’s clear Sam isn’t going to be able to keep this up forever, and he’s already tired. No less than 20 minutes later though, there’s knock on the door to the observation room and two of Stark's overpaid employees carry in a fold-up camp bed. Right behind them is Pepper Potts, CEO of Stark industries and one of the most powerful women in the world.

Sam gapes. Full on fly-catching mouth open and everything, because, hot damn, she is _gorgeous_ . It’s the ass-end of the night and she’s still pristine in a midnight blue pencil skirt-suit with 5-inch red heels and her hair up in some kind of fancy bun thing and oh my God, close your mouth, Sam, you damn _idiot_.

“Just against that wall, thank you so much,” she tells the guys carrying the furniture, and then turns to Sam, smiling like a sunrise.” You must be Mr Wilson,” she says “I’m so pleased you’re feeling better. I’m-”

“Ms Potts,” says Sam, finally remembering how to speak. He’d figured out, of course, that agreeing with Steve’s plan of taking Barnes to Avengers Tower was going to eventually involve him meeting others of the Avengers. He’s been pretty stoked about that. But there were some fairly major differences in the way he’d have liked to start out. For one, Steve would have been there to introduce them. For seconds, it would have been at some fancy party where he looked fly as hell and everyone was drinking champagne out of pianos or whatever rich people did. And three: he would not have been wearing slippers and three-day old hospital scrubs.

“Glad to meet you,” he manages to pull himself together. “Believe me.”

She offers him her left hand to shake, seeming to have already clocked the fibreglass cast on his right. They shake.

“Pepper,” she says and smiles again, that perfect, CEO smile, and then steps back and perches on the arm of a chair, totally at ease. She gestures to the camp bed. “I understand you told JARVIS that you’d prefer not to leave Sergeant Barnes on his own for the time being, so I thought you might at least get some rest while you’re here.”

“You really didn’t have to do that,” Sam says, still embarrassed. “I would have been fine.”

She waves his protestations away. “It’s no trouble. I’ve just been to see Steve, so I was passing by in any case. Steve’s looking better, I thought.”

Sam doesn’t point out that 83 floors down is hardly _passing by_. “We talking about the same guy here? Big blonde beefcake who lost five pints of blood and currently looks like a punched puppy?”

Pepper laughs, and then shakes her head a little. “Apart from that. But I know things haven’t been easy for him.”

Sam shakes his head. “He didn’t really have time to process HYDRA showing up again before finding out about Barnes. It was a real kick in the face, and I mean that literally. That’s on top of the whole defrosting, new-century-thing which I know is way more stressful than he lets on.”

Sam is surprised to find he is so willing to talk to Pepper about Steve. This woman inspires confidence. “We’ll figure it out though,” he adds, not wanting to end on too much of a downer. “One day at a time.”

“We’ve been a little worried about Steve since he moved to DC,” Pepper says, “so I’m glad he had you out there to rely on, Mr Wilson. I have to say, I’m pleased he felt he could come here when he needed help. He and Tony don’t always see eye to eye.”

Sam makes a non-committal sound that he hopes doesn’t indicate how close Steve had been to blowing off the Avengers entirely, snatching Bucky up and disappearing into the wilderness. Instead he says, “Just Sam’s fine.”

“Sam, then.” Pepper crosses over to the window, and looks out into the panic room. It’s not really a window, of course – no glass in a room that’s meant to be Hulk-proof. Instead, an array of tiny sensors line the walls and roof and project an image of the room beyond onto the window-sized viewscreen. The panic room itself is painted a sunset orange, and is almost entirely empty except for the hospital bed, a single chair, and the small doorway on the far wall which leads into a bathroom. At the moment, Barnes seems to be asleep, the shadow of the NG tube dark on his face. Dr Patel and his team had managed to fit the feeding tube and IV port while Barnes had been unconscious, which means the guy is finally getting some serious proper nutrition and fluids. It’s not perfect yet, he is still upchucking every so often, but even so it’s a big improvement.

“How is he?” Pepper asks, as they watch Bucky Barnes’ chest rising and falling.

Sam sighs. “To be honest, I have no idea.”

Pepper folds her arms in around her chest, almost like she’s chilled. “I heard some of what HYDRA did from Maria and Clint. It’s...horrible.”

Sam can see, even despite her poise and grace, that she is genuinely disturbed by what she’s heard. Sam is good at reading people, and Pepper Potts is far more compassionate than her detached, perfect CEO image might imply.

“He’s a mess,” Sam agrees. “Physically and mentally. He’s never going to be who he was before. I don’t think Steve accepts that yet. 

“Does he...Does Sergeant Barnes remember any of it?”

“Hard to say. He can’t really communicate all that well yet, and he has a lot of conditioned behaviours. He trusts Steve, which is good. But I think he’s not even sure who he is right now, let alone the rest of the world.”

Pepper’s eyes go soft. “That sounds terrifying.”

Sam nods. “One thing I can tell you; he is fighting it, with all he has. Not ten days out of their hands and he was actively deceiving HYDRA agents. Actually lying to them. I mean, after seventy years of torture and conditioning. That’s pretty astonishing.”

Pepper nods. “We seem to find ourselves surrounded by astonishing people, don’t we?”

Sam smiles. She’s not wrong. 

“Sam.” She turns to him, fully in control once more. “I want you to tell me if there is anything he needs, or anything we can do to make this place more comfortable. As far as I’m concerned, he’s a guest here, not a prisoner. I just wanted you to know that.”

“Thank you,” Sam says, heartfelt. He really hopes Steve can verify that Pepper Potts is one of the good guys, because she is _amazing._

“Have you eaten yet? There’s a Starbucks and a Subway on Floor 7 or a great sushi place on 9 that stays open late.”

“I’m good, thanks.” Sam waves his sandwich.

“Alright. Talking of guests, Sam, Captain America has the rooms on Floor 92 or you’re welcome to a guest suite; just ask JARVIS for directions and please make yourself at home for as long as you like. The other Avengers are on floors 86 to 93, and there’s a common room and kitchen on 84 for whatever you need. And I know you had to leave DC in kind of a hurry, so I grabbed some fresh clothes and toiletries for you,” she gestures to a sports holdall one of the employee guys left by the chair. Sam picks it up and opens it as Pepper laughs a little. “I’m afraid I had to have JARVIS work out the sizes.” 

Sweats, running shoes, t-shirts, underwear, a hoodie, a blanket. All brand new. It’s almost identical to the bag he made up for Barnes back at the cabin, with the exception of the designer labels on everything, the absence of baby food, and the brand new StarkPhone cell tucked in one pocket. The cell already has Steve’s number programmed in. 

Sam expresses his undying thanks, but Pepper waves it away.

“Now, I have another suggestion,” Pepper says. “There’s a bathroom on the right at the end of the hall. I’m expecting a phone call at 4am with Beijing that I have to do some prep for, so if I can read my paperwork here while you go freshen up, and that way Barnes won’t be alone. How does that sound?”

Sam is a little speechless again, but sue him; it’s been a long few days. He quickly texts Steve and then fiddles around getting his new stuff together until the reply comes in. Good job Steve was awake.

SAM WILSON: Hey man, it’s me, new phone. Just met Pepper Potts, she’s offering to watch Bucky for a bit. That ok?

STEVE ROGERS: YES. YOU CN TRUST HER. 

Sam frowns. All caps and a typo? Steve must be out of it.

SAM WILSON: Thank god. I need a shower so bad.

STEVE ROGERS: I COULD HAVe told you that.

SAM WILSON: Mature, Steve. Real mature.

The shower is both awesome and not awesome, because it’s all kinds of bliss but also drags him to awareness of just how tired he is and aches through every bruise. Plus the cast on his arm makes the whole process super annoying. It’s been a long, crazy few weeks that have taken Sam from a comfortable, satisfying life with a job he loves in a great city, to hanging out in a secret basement below Avengers Tower child-minding a brainwashed World War Two amputee super-soldier. He abandoned his job, his house, his family - his whole life, in fact - without a backward glance and dived headfirst after Captain America into this crazy, crazy world of spies and secret Nazi agencies and cyborg ex-soviet assassins and of _being shot at all the goddamn time_ . Sooner or later he is going to need some time to process that. Process, and maybe call his Mom. And work. And Tessa to explain that her car got blown up. And Mitch to explain that his cabin got blown up. Sam shakes his head. This had better not become a _habit._

He is halfway through shaving when the bathroom echoes with a polite hum, and then JARVIS’s impeccable voice fills the air. 

“Sir, I am to inform you that Sergeant Barnes seems to be suffering from a disturbance.”

Sam sighs. So much for that break from the drama.

“Okay, I’m on my way. How bad is it?”

“Ms Potts is concerned that he appears to be in some distress.”

By the time Sam gets back to the observation room, dressed in new Stark-branded sweats and running shoes, Pepper Potts’ StarkPad is lying abandoned on the side table. Pepper herself is staring out through the viewscreen, biting her thumbnail in an oddly uncertain gesture. There are three armed security guards at her side. She turns as Sam walks in and nods at the guards. They file out of the observation room again, closing the door behind them.

“What happened?” says Sam, hurrying over.

“About ten minutes after you left, Sergeant Barnes started thrashing around and calling out; I thought he was dreaming.” Pepper gestures through the window. “Things escalated a little.”

Sam looks. Barnes has gone, and so has the medical bed. Sam sees that it has been thrown onto its side and wedged into the corner of the room to create a makeshift barricade. Behind it is Barnes, pressed into the corner with his knees pulled up, and huddled deep into his hoodie. He has the hood pulled down and the neck pulled up, so between that and his hair, his face is almost entirely hidden. He’s turned towards the sightlines for both the external and bathroom doors, but he’s still enough to be sleeping again. Maybe he’s just lost in his misery.

“He woke up, and seemed rather upset,” Pepper is saying. “He was crying. I went in to try and reassure him, but I don’t think he was even aware that I was there.”

Sam is taken aback. “You went in there with him?”

“Of course,” she says, as if comforting an unrestrained and unstable mass-murderer was something she did every day. “I wasn’t just going to sit here and do nothing. But I didn’t want to touch him and startle him, so I came out when I could see I wasn’t helping.” 

Sam sighs. “Yeah. It’s just a thing he does; can’t shake him out of it once he starts crying, just gotta wait for it to stop. But thanks, for trying.”

“After I left, he tipped all the furniture over and then hid behind it. I suppose he feels safe there.”

There is silence for a moment while they both stare at Barnes’ huddled form behind its barricade of furniture. Pepper says: “This room is a suitable place for Sergeant Barnes’ care for the time being, Sam, but keeping him down here is not a permanent solution. I’d like to help you and Steve get access to whoever you need to help Sergeant Barnes. Medical and psychiatric doctors, and also a dedicated legal team. SI have the resources to recruit whatever specialists you need.” 

It was a good plan and a generous offer. So far every moment had been so caught up on surviving, Sam hadn’t really considered what would come next. But yeah, they’re going to need specialist help, a lot of it. Despite their best efforts, the medical staff are hopelessly out of their depth. Sam had seen the x-rays of Barnes’ chest and shoulder – there is metal and synthetic tissue everywhere, flaring bright white on the film, obscuring everything, and all they can tell is that he probably has broken ribs, tissue damage and something in there is bleeding. Maybe it’ll start to heal up its own now the guy has started getting some calories again, but that could take time. They know the HYDRA serum Bucky was dosed with must have given him advanced healing just for him to have survived 70 years of cryogenic freezing. The Kiev file says as much, and some of the blood Dr Banner took is being tested to see if he can figure out Barnes’ version of the serum is different to Steve’s. But whatever the scope of that advanced healing is, they know it hasn’t been functioning since the Battle of DC. Dr Patel will need better imaging of the damage if Barnes is going to end up needing surgery, but with all that metal it's not like they can just stick Barnes in a MRI. 

That’s where Stark comes in, of course. Almost the minute they had gotten the Soldier down into the panic room, Stark had turned up in full Iron Man armour to disable the tracker and self-destruct devices in the arm. That of course had been essential, but they still need Stark now to figure out how the damn thing goes together, particularly if broken bone or torn tissue has got to be surgically repaired. Plus there’s still those busted up sections of the arm to replace. JARVIS has managed to mine a few heavily encrypted blueprints for the arm from the HYDRA data leak, but nothing more recent than the late 1980s. Stark had said he’d be working on it. Sam hasn’t seen him around since.

The bloodwork they took from the Soldier was just as much of a mess as his arm - HYDRA had kept the Soldier dozed up on a cocktail of benzodiazepines as well as a slew of other compounds that Dr Banner hasn’t yet been able to identify. The medical team have thrown together a treatment regime to manage Barnes' pain and the symptoms of withdrawal but it’s going to be a work in progress until they can do more tests. Sam knows that sudden drug withdrawal won’t kill, but it could cause seizures, tremors and sickness as well as exacerbating a whole host of the Barnes’ other psychological issues. 

Because, of course, Sam thinks, after the tissue damage, the malfunctioning prosthesis, the drug withdrawal and the malnutrition are all fixed, they just have to find a specialist to deal with 70 years worth of psychological abuse, violence and severe trauma. Quite where Pepper is proposing to find an expert in brainwashed ex-Soviet amputee assassins in this day and age is beyond him. Probably not Craigslist. 

“Maria is going to work on some options for the future,” Pepper continues after he’s been quiet a while. “But I wouldn’t let any decisions be made without Steve. We all want the best result for Sergeant Barnes, but I know Steve is not going to trust SHIELD’s intentions for the time being.

Sam nods. He hears what she is saying. “To be honest, I couldn’t care less about SHIELD or the politics or assigning blame. I’m here as Steve’s friend, and to try and make sure Barnes gets the help he needs, medically and psychologically.” 

“Alright. With Barnes, what’s the priority?” Pepper asks, clearly reading something from his face.

“I think we gotta get the arm fixed, first,” Sam says. “Every time he moves it, he’s doing more tissue and muscle damage. We’re guessing that once his caloric intake comes back up, his super-soldier healing will come back online, but if the arm is displaced, the damaged bones and tissue might not heal around it properly. Far as I understand it, Dr Patel’s concern is that his body might reject the prosthesis entirely. Steve said Tony Sta- that Mr Stark had agreed to take a look at figuring out the robotics side of what’s wrong with the arm, and figure out how to scan it. Do you know if he is available to do that, or...”

Pepper sighs, and turns away from the window. 

“Tony is- he’s a complicated person,” she says. Sam’s brain translates as _asshole._ “He was quite involved in SHIELD and after everything that’s happened, he and Maria are trying to work out what to do with what is left; thousand of former employees, assets and premises, finding all their accounts, stashes and safehouses and viruses, and then there’s terabytes of data to go through...Basically, it has been a very long couple of weeks. Tony went to bed about two hours ago for the first time in three days, and I can guarantee that unless he gets twelve to eighteen solid hours sleep right now, he won’t be of any use to anyone. Can Sergeant Barnes wait that long?”

Sam nods, relieved. “Yeah. He’ll be fine for a day, I think. I hope. As long as he doesn’t move around too much. Guess we need Stark on top form more than anything else.”

Pepper smiles. “Then I’ll make sure he’s here as soon as he’s up. Don’t forget to let JARVIS know if there is anything else you need.”

She bids Sam goodnight, what’s left of it anyway, and goes off to her meeting, looking as fresh and alert as if she had just slept for twelve solid hours rather than none.

Sam watches Barnes sleep, and makes a few requests of JARVIS. While Pepper had been there, he had been struck by the bleakness of the panic room, and it's not much but just maybe he can do something about that. JARVIS agrees to monitor Barnes and wake Sam if he seems distressed in any way. Then Sam collapses onto the camp bed and gets four hours of blissful, dreamless sleep until a knock on the observation room door announces the arrival of the day nurse, and accompanying security team, to change Barnes’ IV.

With them is Steve.

“What the hell?” Sam is wide awake and on his feet in a second, ignoring the four gun-wielding agents and dragging Cap towards a chair. Steve looks better than he did, but he’s still as white as a sheet. “Steve, you’ve been shot five times in two weeks. Supersoldier or not, you should not be walking around!”

“That’s what I told him,” the nurse mutters, laying out medical supplies from a trolley onto the table. 

“So did I,” says Maria Hill, who follows them into the room at that moment. “Some people just don’t listen. Thanks guys, we’ll take it from here.” She dismisses the armed security detail who file out without question. Only then does Sam note that yet another person has entered behind Hill and Steve, an older woman who looks like a doctor. 

“Hey Sam,” Hill greets him. “How’s it going?”

“Hey.” What is it with all these women in Sam’s life now who seem to never get any sleep and constantly look amazing? It’s so not fair. He looks between Steve, Hill and the new doctor. “What’s going on?”

“I wanted to see how Bucky was doing,” Steve says, “and Hill thought it would be good to come and do an observation at the same time.” Steve’s tone is pretty neutral, but Sam can tell he’s on edge.

“Nothing official,” Hill adds, with a smile and waves her hands to show she’s not carrying a clipboard or a tablet. “After all, SHIELD technically no longer exists. But if it did, I would probably be in charge, and the Winter Soldier would probably be in SHIELD custody. But as no-one is quite sure whose responsibility he is right now, I’m just trying to provide an assessment of how best to manage Barnes, and, fundamentally, confirm whether the Winter Soldier is still an active threat or not.”

Sam glances at Steve but Cap doesn’t lose his shit, so clearly this is something they’ve already talked about. For his part, Sam appreciates her candor. He and Steve knew this was going to happen after all; better that someone tried and tested like Hill is the one managing the official side of things for now.

Hill gestures to the older woman that had followed her in. “This is Dr Emma Pedley. She’s a former SHIELD psychiatrist who specializes in post-traumatic stress and cognitive behavioural therapies.”

“Retired,” Dr Pedley adds, shaking everyone’s hands. “And not a secret HYDRA agent, before you ask.”

Hill perches on the edge of the table where the nurse is laying out his equipment, and continues.

“When Sergeant Barnes is up to it, there’s a whole bunch of questions we’re going to need to ask him about HYDRA and how they’ve operated for the past 70 years. He is potentially a goldmine of information about how they got into SHIELD, who their operatives are--”

“He’s not your prisoner,” Steve reminds her, a little sharply. 

“I know that, Steve” Hill answers, calmly, despite it being patently untrue. “But even rescued POWs need to be debriefed. At some point we’ll need him to tell us everything he can remember.”

“We did agree that now is not the time for that, Director Hill,” Dr Pedley points out, mildly. 

“Of course not,” says Hill, blandly. “I am just asking you to bear it in mind. If he’s able to tell any of you anything about HYDRA, though, I need to know it. It could be invaluable in helping us rout out other rogue elements in SHIELD, and will go a long way to showing he’s not under HYDRA’s control anymore. Conversely, of course, if he’s not in a fit enough state to recall anything then we can also use that to demonstrate that he’s been through significant trauma and is not at any fault for anything that’s happened.”

Understanding starts to dawn on Sam. She’s talking about responsibility, guilt. Evidence. This isn’t just about the information that Barnes can give them on HYDRA. This is about the possibility of Barnes ending up on trial. He glances at Steve, but the man doesn’t seem to be listening. He’s still staring through the window at Bucky.

“I want to be clear that this is all precautionary at this stage,” Hill continues. “But any observations Dr Pedley and I make will be useful in providing a baseline of his mental state and to build a timeline of his recovery.”

Dr Pedley nods and clarifies. “Again, I’m not here in any official capacity either. I’m just intending to observe and maybe I can make some useful suggestions about James’s state of mind, and about his future care.”

“Hey,” the nurse speaks up from by the door. “Am I good to go in there and make a start? ‘Cause it looks kind of a mess.” He’s pointing at the observation window and at the pile of furniture in the corner behind which Barnes is barely visible. 

“Oh,” Sam says. “I think Barnes decided he didn’t like the room layout. He essentially built himself a fort. I just left him to it, he seemed happy enough. He’s asleep.”

“Is that going to mean he ripped his IV port out again?” The nurse sighs, and adds another few items from the trolley to his medical bag. Sam actually looks at the guy for the first time and notices the bruises under his eyes and the swollen nose. Clearly recently broken and reset.

“Hey,” Sam realises. “You’re Ricardo, right?”

The nurse’s hand goes self consciously to his nose and he laughs a bit self-deprecatingly. “Oh yeah. Guess word got around. It was my fault, though; I shoulda known better.”

“Wait, you’re the guy Bucky hit?” Steve sounds as surprised as Sam feels. He glances at the new psychiatrist a little nervously. “I’m sorry, he didn’t mean it. I’m really sorry-”

The guy shrugs. “It’s okay, not his fault. Looks like he’s had a rough time of it. Friend of yours, right?”

The whole room goes silent, suddenly aware how openly they’d been talking. 

“Patient confidentiality,” the nurse says, waving a hand. “And don’t forget the kinda terrifying non-disclosure agreement. I signed away my life to even be setting foot in here. I never heard nothing, man.” 

Steve nods, and answers the question. “Yeah, he’s my friend. He’s been, uh, imprisoned for a long time.” 

“Then no sweat,” says Ricardo. “I spent three years working in the psych ward at Rikers Island and then the last seven in the ER at Metro-General in Hell’s Kitchen; I’ve had all sorts of folks take a swing at me for worse reasons. I knew what I was getting into when I volunteered for this gig. I ain’t gonna hold a grudge, unless he keeps ripping out his IV line in which case, all bets are off, man. Hey, we haven’t actually met. I’m Ricardo Malavé.”

Sam and Steve shake the nurse’s hand.

“I’ll come in with you and try to get Winter out of the corner first,” Sam says, impressed and feeling slightly dazed. “Or you aren’t going to be able to do your thing.”

Dr Pedley nods. “I think that is for the best. I’ve looked through yours and the Captain’s reports of everything that happened from the events in DC to here, and it seems clear that you have built up quite the rapport with James. I know he and Captain Rogers have a more significant history, but we just can’t risk letting the Captain in there until it’s clear that James isn’t going to attack him again. You’re the only other person he’s responded to so far.”

Steve is looking endlessly miserable, but Sam agrees. They had been being cautious with Steve and Barnes before when it was just the three of them. But now after this new setback, both of them injured, and with a host of security agents with itchy trigger fingers within earshot, they can’t take any chances.

Hill passes over a bag of items and an earpiece. “I’m afraid there wasn’t time to get all of the things you asked JARVIS for, Sam, but I managed to round up some bits overnight, plus some items that Steve suggested. Here, put this earpiece in. That way the three of us can prompt you with any questions we think of.”

“The guards should stay outside,” Sam says, gesturing to the corridor where they know the bunch of armed agents are waiting. “Seriously. I know all the med staff are getting an armed guard now, but I don’t want him to associate us with guns pointed at him. That alright with you, Ricardo? You can send them in if we look like we’re in danger, but not before.”

“Sure,” the nurse agrees. “Not a big fan of guns, wherever they're pointed.”

Maria nods her agreement. 

“Okay, here goes,” Sam says, and steps through the door.

* * *


	3. Asset

The Asset wakes up at the sound of movement outside.

It finds it is sitting up against a wall in the large orange room. There are no windows. Two doors on each side of the massive room, the large entrance and the small side door to a bathroom. There is a metal-framed bed on its side and one chair piled up in front of it. Despite the barrier of furniture, the room seems too empty; there’s no good cover and the Asset feels exposed in the vastness of the space. At the entrance, a huge sliding door perhaps three metres tall is opening, and a man is stepping into the room. The massive door closes behind him with a barely audible click. The Soldier scrambles onto its knees in a second, darting low behind the cover of the bed frame. The man pauses and speaks.

“Woah, dude, jumpy much?”

The Asset observes the man through a gap in the barrier. He is dressed in soft, dark pants and a hooded sweater. There is an almost invisible radio earpiece in one ear. He appears to have been in recent combat; his face is badly bruised, he stands with his weight on the right leg and his arm is in a sling like the Asset’s. He does not appear to be armed although he is carrying a bag. He smiles, but he looks tense, wary and tired.

The Soldier knows this man. It glances past him at the closed door.

“You remember me, right?” The man continues. “It’s Sam. We’re friends.”

Friends? The Asset only remembers that Sam Wilson is a Handler, and so far, a poor one. They have been attacked twice and, despite that, he still does not issue the Asset with appropriate weaponry or clear instructions to defend them. His rules are inconsistent with previous handling commands. He does not punish the Asset sufficiently. He does not send the Asset for correction, nor does he put it into the ice. On the other hand, the Asset does not remember ever having a friend before. It nods, cautiously.

“Good,” Sam says, smiling. He seems happy. He walks into the room, slowly, and soon he is too close to the Asset and getting closer. The Soldier quickly backs off until it is as far away as it can be while still within the shelter of the bed. It puts its back against the wall

Sam Wilson freezes, and then slowly starts to step back, still smiling blandly. “I get it. It’s a big personal-space day, right? That’s okay, man. Take all the space you need. I’m just gonna chill out over here for a bit.” 

Sam Wilson keeps stepping back until he is about ten metres from the door. Now there are five metres between them. Acceptable. Sam takes his phone out of a pocket and fiddles with it for a bit. He seems wholly unthreatening. The Asset sits. Sam lowers the phone and smiles at it. 

“So, man, how are you feeling?”

“Hardware reporting 17% complete mechanical failure. Asset function compromised. Maintenance essential.” The Soldier states, staring at Sam’s shoulder. Its metal arm is held close to Barnes’ chest with an arrangement of buckles and straps. The sling relieves some of the pain in the Soldier’s side but it would have to waste valuable time tearing the limb free should it be attacked. It hates that.

“We’re working on that, man. The problem is getting a good look at where the damage is, but we have someone working on that. Top priority. Does your shoulder hurt now?”

The Asset shrugs and then the movement makes the loose broken thing inside of the arm shift and touch against something else. Pains shoot down its arm, and the entire limb flexes hard against the sling. The Soldier grinds its meat knuckles hard against the floor until the pain goes away. 

Sam is watching. “It’s still pretty bad, huh? Look, my friend Ricardo is here, he’s a nurse, and he just wants to sort out your IV for you. Look, you see where it’s bleeding there on your right hand where you pulled the thing out? He can fix that for you, and then you can have another pain pill if you want. Is it okay if he comes in?” 

The Asset doesn’t reply but it looks at the door. A med tech comes into the room and crosses over to the Soldier. The Soldier knows it must not interfere while the med techs maintain the biosystems, so it goes into temporary standby while the med tech works. The sound of one of its codenames boots it back up,

“Winter? You there? You did really well, man. I’m getting you a pill now for the pain.”

The med tech has gone. Sam Wilson has not gone. There is temporary maintenance equipment attached to Barnes’ meat hand by a tube which extends up to a metal pole at its side. There is a rattling sound; Sam is holding a bottle out one-handed, and tipping a pill out into the cap. He takes a bottle of water out of the bag and walks towards the Asset. At three metres away, the Asset flinches, and Sam stops. He places the pill and water on the floor and walks back to his spot to sit.

The Asset waits for several minutes before it ventures out from behind the bed. The moment it starts to move, the tubes tug annoyingly against its arm. It moves to yank the irritation free, but the Handler speaks.

“No, Winter. Leave that alone. You can pull the pole along, if you want. See?”

The Asset grabs the pole as ordered, and walks cautiously across the floor. Picks up the water and the pill. Swallowing produces a strange sensation in its throat. It rubs at its head, and then its fingers snag on something stuck to its face. It feels along the length of a tube that passes out from its nose, taped to the skin and then loops over its ear. It gives the tube a tug and Sam calls out.

“Hey, no, man, don’t mess with that either. I’m sorry, I know it’s uncomfortable. But they didn’t have a choice, had to get some food into you somehow. It’s working, that’s the main thing. We’re hoping you’ll start healing again when you get some food and liquids in, and then they can take it out.”

The Asset lowers its hand, relieved. It has the feeding tube back. Perhaps this base has proper Med techs after all, ones that are capable of managing the Asset’s biosystems. It considers for a moment, staring at the distant door, and then says, low:

“Questions...are permitted.”

Sam smiles again. “Sure, yes, of course, Winter. You can ask anything you want.”

“The punishment is complete?”

Sam stares at it for a second. “Punishm- Okay, can you explain what you mean?”

“Behavioural correction,” the Asset clarifies. Perhaps they want it to show it had understood why it was being corrected. “To adjust rogue behavioural elements in the Asset caused by malfunctions. The current punishment requires the Asset to ingest numerous poisons to enforce its compliance.” 

Sam Wilson’s mouth hangs open. He glances up towards the wall where the Asset knows there are a strip of cameras and monitoring equipment along the edge of the roof. The Soldier can hear a distant, tinny sound that is something like shouting; it is probably coming from Sam’s earpiece. Then Sam says;

“Oh my God. Poison? Those sick sons of- God, Winter, that is not what happened, okay? The stuff we gave you to eat was real food. You threw up because your body has forgotten how to digest things properly while you were- We were not trying to make you sick, and you were NOT being punished, or corrected, or anything like that. You need to eat food to survive and we were trying to help you. I’m so sorry that you thought we were trying to hurt you on purpose. We will never,  _ ever _ , do that, okay? If you think you are being punished, now or in the future, you just have to ask, and then we can explain to you that you’re not. I’m not mad, Winter, I promise, just a bit surprised and upset.” 

Sam says he is not mad, but his tone is sharp and his body is tense. The Soldier is very good at reading those signs and they all point to anger. It keeps its eyes down and doesn’t say anything.

“Winter,” Sam says. “It’s all right; you just really need to understand this. You can ask questions any time, that’s good, and I’m pleased you asked me. You were not and are not being punished for anything. We are not going to hurt you. I want you to tell me that you understand.”

The Asset wants to comply. It really, really does. But the words have all got tangled up in James Barnes’ idiot mouth and it can’t say anything. The Asset smacks its meat fist hard against its head, twice, hoping to force a recalibration. Sam Wilson doesn’t like that.

“Winter, don’t do that!” he says, and now his face is angry too, matching the voice. “It’s okay, man. It’s all right, let’s just...let’s talk about something else, shall we?”

The Soldier holds its metal arm close with the flesh arm and rests its shoulder against the wall. The pill that Sam Wilson gave it has made the body slow and sleepy and it does not want to have to fight now. If it cannot determine what constitutes compliance, silence and stillness is the best way to remain unpunished. It looks at the door.

“So,” Sam is saying, and there is a smile on his face but not in his tone. “Expect you’re pretty bored down here, so I’ve brought you a few things to use up the time.” He pulls a number of items slowly out of the bag, stacks them into a neat pile, and stands up. He walks towards the Asset, watching carefully. When he is two metres away, the Asset cannot help but flinch, so Sam places the items on the floor and backs away again. 

When he is safely away, the Asset leans forward and drags the stack of things towards it. It is confused; it has no training for this Handler’s behaviour, no parallel for this action. It does not know how to respond to these items which are clearly neither weapons, intel, nor tactical gear. The first thing in the stack is a blanket. The colour is blue, not unlike the tone of the walls, but a richer, deeper colour like the sky on a frosty evening. It is not soft like animal fur nor artificially light and airy, but heavy and thick, like old military uniforms. The Asset brings the wool to its face; the smell is indescribable, a light heady fragrance, like soap but better. The Asset sits, breathing in the smell for a long time, until it hears Sam say;

“You okay there, man?”

The Asset nods and carefully refolds the blanket, putting it aside. Under the blanket are three wedges of bound paper, too small and narrow to be mission reports, and a larger document with bright, glossy pages. A magazine? A picture book? The Asset runs its hand over the magazine first; it has bold drawings of people in garish colours fitted into boxes on every shiny page. Next it picks up the books. These also have bright colours on the covers but the insides are plain. The print inside, black-on-white, makes its eyes hurt. One book though does not have writing and instead has patterns and little arrangements of squares or dots covering its pages. The books smell of old paper and dust, even though their covers are stiff and new. One also smells of that bitter drink that the Handlers always had; it can’t remember the name of it. The last two items are small boxes containing narrow cylinders. One box contains blunt sticks of wax in different colours. The second box contains white sticks with brown tips; cigarettes. They smell like something...it makes the Asset’s head hurt to think of it.

Sam Wilson is smiling when the Asset risks a glance at his face.

“Sorry, you can’t have one yet,” he says. “The guard wouldn’t let us bring in a lighter. I guess there’s not much point in a lecture about the hazards of tobacco smoke to someone who can survive all the things you can. Maybe when you get out of here, okay?” 

The Asset has no idea what Sam Wilson is talking about. It stacks the books in a neat row against the wall and puts the blanket at one end and the crayons and cigarettes at the other. Then it turns back to Sam and waits patiently. There will be a mission. Sooner or later.

“Winter, there’s just one more thing. If you feel up to it, can you tell me what you remember about what happened? About HYDRA attacking, or the car wreck? Anything?”

“Нет,” the Asset says. Its head hurts.

“That’s okay,” says Sam, quickly. “Do you remember...your, uh, mission?”

There it is. “Two targets, level six,” The Asset confirms. “Steven Rogers, aka Captain America. Natalia Alianovna Romanova, aka Black Widow.”

“Only two? What about Jasper Sitwell, wasn’t he also a target?

“Agent Jasper Sitwell has been compromised,” the Asset says, relaying the orders as Field Handler Rumlow had delivered them in the vehicle. “He is now a supplementary target, Level 4.”

“Back on the causeway though. That wasn’t an assassination, Winter, that was a  _ war _ . What about those cops you killed, or all the other innocent bystanders on the bus or on the bridge?”

“Permitted.” The Asset reports. “"Жертвы среди гражданского населения” ...bystander casualties. Are encouraged.”

“Jesus,” mutters Sam. “They really just set you loose out there, didn’t they? Okay. Your current mission, though. Can you tell me the...uh...mission status?”

“Миссия приостановлена.”

Sam is silent for a moment, listening to his earpiece. Then he says, “Do you  _ want  _ to complete your mission? I mean, if you can suspend a mission, can’t you just cancel it instead? Or decide not to reinstate it? I don’t think you actually want to hurt anyone, do you?”

The Asset shakes its head. It’s head is hurting. Too many questions.

“It is the mission,” it explains. “It is not complete.”

“Okay, who could order you to cancel a mission?”

The Asset frowns. The pressure is squeezing inside of its head.

“Field Handler Rumlow. Secretary Pierce.”

“Shit,” says Sam, rubbing at his right arm. “I knew you were going to say that.” He turns slightly aside and presses on the ear-piece, listening. The Asset thinks about Secretary Pierce and wonders where he is. It almost stays silent and then it remembers it is permitted to ask questions. 

“Secretary Pierce...he’s here?”

“No, Winter, he’s not here. It’s okay; Pierce is dead, he was killed at DC. He can’t ever get to you again. You’re safe here.”

“Secretary Pierce is dead.”

It’s okay,” says Sam again. He says that a lot, but it’s not okay. Secretary Pierce is dead. The Asset thinks about how Secretary Pierce had never raised his voice to the Asset, not once. He excelled at cognitive recalibration when the Asset’s programming malfunctioned. He never confused the Asset or told it to do things that it wasn’t permitted to do. He followed the rules. It was Secretary Pierce who had stopped the STRIKE teams tormenting the Asset for fun. Secretary Pierce looked the Asset in the eyes like it was a real person, and he would tell the Asset that it was useful, that it was important. That its work was a gift. The Asset thinks that he was kind.

Sam Wilson is still talking but the Soldier doesn’t want to listen any more. It kneels down on the floor and then curls forward, pressing its eyes to its knees. If it had both hands, it would use them to block its ears; instead it puts the flesh arm across the back of its head and hums, low and toneless, like an idling engine. 

Eventually, Sam Wilson goes away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd for me by [theAsh0](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theAsh0/pseuds/theAsh0) and [Thepracticalheartmom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thepracticalheartmom/pseuds/Thepracticalheartmom). Thanks so much, friends!


	4. Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, took me a little longer to tidy this up than I hoped.

Steve pushes past Hill and Ricardo and the psychiatrist, and is down the hall and into the elevator before Hill can even call his name. He’s stressing his not-yet healed body too much, everything hurts, but he’s so furious and upset and guilty that it barely registers. He rides the elevator up all 93 floors of the tower until he ascends the last flight of stairs and comes up on the locked door that leads out to the rooftop terrace. It’s the other side of the building from the landing pad, and JARVIS argues with him about his authority to access the area for all of twenty seconds before Steve loses his patience and just punches the door to pieces. The door clatters to the floor, and he is spilling out onto the roof, and it’s so cold up here the air burns in his lungs but at last he can _breathe._

Steve leans against the rail in the buffeting wind and inhales the cold. He looks out over the city and thinks about how sorry he is that Alexander Pierce is dead. Somewhere amongst the noise and the rage of DC, Nick Fury had planted two bullets in his chest and it had taken just eight quick seconds for Pierce to die. That was what Nat had told him. Neat and quiet. A small reticent thing in the midst of such chaos. It was a dignified end for the man who had aided in tearing Bucky Barnes apart piece by piece and stitching a Frankenstein’s monster together from his organs and his limbs. No chance now to have Pierce reap what he had sown, to suffer just a fraction of what Bucky has suffered for seventy years. He died too quick and Steve is sorry he didn’t suffer. Maybe that’s a mean, cruel thought but he doesn’t care. Right now, he doesn’t care.

It’s about thirty minutes before Steve hears Sam’s step on the stairs. There’s a pause as he climbs over the ruined door and then he follows Steve out onto the terrace cursing lightly at the chill wind. Sam walks over to stand at Steve’s side, pulling his jacket closer. 

He says, “Pepper came by, so I asked her to watch Barnes. I don’t think he’s going to be up to much for a while.”

Steve nods but doesn’t reply. He lets the silence hold them for a few more moments before he asks;

“So what did they say?”

Sam leans back a little. “Pretty much what we already know; Hill said that it was clear Barnes is in no condition to be interviewed by anyone right now. Trying to find out about HYDRA from him right now would be, in her words, “not only unproductive, but probably also unethical and inhumane.” Pedley pretty much agreed with everything and said that due to the length of Barnes’ captivity, the seriousness of the trauma and the amount of psychoactive drugs and mood stabilisers he was probably on, it’s going to be a long time before he’ll be able to rationalise much of his memories of time with HYDRA. I made sure they both noted that despite him being under massive stress today, Barnes didn’t attack the nurse or me, or display any threatening behaviours.”

“He was just scared,” says Steve.

Sam nods. “They know that. Hill said they can come back to do a formal assessment sometime, or they can just put what they saw today into writing. What she seemed to be saying was that as long as Bucky stays under the control of her or Stark, we’ll be okay.”

“Do you believe that?”

“That SHIELD has no interest in ‘acquiring’ the Winter Soldier? No, but I guess I trust Hill. She’s come through for us before.”

Steve nods. She had, several times now. But did that mean he trusted her? He was certain that she wasn’t HYDRA. But did he trust her to not be SHIELD? Not to be _bad_ SHIELD, that had designed weapons from the Tesseract, and bombed New York, and had built Project Insight, even though more than a fifth of them had never been HYDRA in the first place? Did he trust Maria Hill not to be Nick Fury?

“Dr Pedley also said that she could put together some recommendations for a psychiatric and medical team, if you wanted her to. She seems okay. I think you should take her up on it; it’s probably time to start thinking about longer term care for when the arm is fixed. Barnes is safe here for now, and this place is like a fortress. Apart from, you know, _that_ door.” He jerks a thumb back towards the ruined steel door that Steve had all but ripped off its hinges. Steve feels a little guilty.

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right. Just seems hard to stop looking over my shoulder, you know? And when we’re not running for our lives, then, well...”

Sam nods, and turns so he’s leaning his back up against the railings and staring out across the roof.

“When you’re not running, you start thinking? Dude, I hear you. But we’ll have to start thinking sooner or later. And, talking of running, this is advance warning that I’m going to take off for a bit. Don’t look at me like that, Steve; we’re not married and you’re not dying. Barnes is safe here. It’ll just be for a few days, maybe a week, while I get my head straight. Trying to talk to Barnes right now is like all my worst ever counselling sessions rolled together into one messy package and then multiplied by ten. And I can’t even look forward to getting the evenings off. I am going to help Barnes and I am going to help you, but taking a break every now and again is pretty damn important.”

“I understand. I really do,” said Steve, who really didn’t. Unless you can count sleeping for 70 years, he hadn’t really ever had a break in his life. He watches the light shine like scales off the Art Deco curves of the nearby Chrysler Building. “Where are you going to go?”

“Back to DC. Pick up what’s left of the wing rig as a bribe for Stark, see my ma. Maybe talk to work about a leave of absence. I’ll be back before you even know I’ve gone.”

Steve is trying not to panic. It’s ridiculous; he’s 93 years old, he’s stormed Nazi prison camps and thrown himself off buildings and out of planes, he’s been through the loss of...everything he knows. And it had really better just be the massive amount of painkillers he’s on that are making him feel like this, like he’s drowning on dry land. Maybe he just didn’t pay enough attention to Nat’s unsubtle comments and realise how lonely he was before it was too late, and now he’s stuck to Sam like a sad little limpet.

“I don’t know what to do,” Steve says. “Bucky – I can’t even risk being in the same room as him right now. Maybe you were right about before – he might be one of those that you stop not save, but I can’t do that. I just can’t. And even if I could be there, I’m not the right person for this. You’re trained, experienced. You know what you’re doing, how to talk to him. Most of the things he’s suffering from, they didn’t even have words for them back in my day. I don’t know what I’m doing. I am going to make things worse.”

“Shut the hell up, Steve,” says Sam, with a crooked smile. Then he sobers and rests his forearms on the rail. “I know there’s a lot riding on you right now, Steve, and it must be pretty overwhelming. That’s real and that’s valid, and we are going to deal with that too. But you also need to acknowledge that you are good with Barnes.”

“Kinda hard to see that past five bullet wounds and a broken face,” Steve says. Sam laughs. 

“I know. But think about it. You got him to eat, and to shower, and you’re the one that can bring him back when he dissociates. He hasn’t needed to care about anyone in 70 years and there he was, stuffing you into a cupboard and standing over you like an angry bear. Hell, the dude literally killed for you, over a dozen guys, because of what you gave him; you gave him your _trust._ You took the cuffs off, even though it was dumb, and you treated him like a person, not a prisoner or an asset or a patient. And did you notice how many times he stared at the door when I was talking to him down there? I thought at first maybe he was thinking about escaping but after a while I realised he was looking for you. I’d say you’re doing fine, Steve. Just gotta manage those expectations of yours. This is going to be a long journey.”

Steve just looks out across the city again. “Just feels like we’re at the start and I’m already drowning.”

“Me too, man,” Sam says. “But it’s not like anyone in the world has training suitable to deal with what he’s been through. I'm just a combat PTSD councillor; I’m so out of my depth that I need a submarine here. All I’m managing these days is to make him cry and think he’s been poisoned.”

Steve rubs a hand across his face. It’s all a mess and he’s just so tired and his chest is aching like fire.

Sam continues after a moment’s silence. “I talked to Pepper Potts last night, about Stark. She said he’d come and look at the arm tomorrow, but that it was _complicated._ ”

Steve has only seen Tony once so far. He’d been loitering by Steve’s bed when he’d first woken up from the surgery yesterday, clutching his phone and an empty coffee cup. Sam had been gently snoring on the next bed. Steve had been in a slight panic; he remembered nothing of the flight to the tower after collapsing on Clint at the crash site, and Bucky isn’t anywhere in sight. Stark had reassured him that his _pet murderbot_ was safely confined in one of the purpose-built Hulk panic rooms and was not getting out. Tony had seemed even more erratic and on-edge than usual; he’d barely listened to Steve’s recount of everything that had happened in DC, except to make a few snide comments or ask about Sam’s wing rig. Eventually, Steve had nodded off, and when he woke up again, Tony had gone. Something was going on and it was about more than just the fall of SHIELD.

“Yeah. Complicated is one way to describe it.”

“Sir,” JARVIS’s cultured tones drifted to them from some hidden speakers. “Sir, Mr Stark would like you to know that he can a) hear you, and b) is fully aware that, and I quote; ‘complicated’ is just another word for ‘asshole’.” 

“God, that is so creepy.” Sam mutters.

At his side Steve says; “Morning JARVIS,” to the empty air. “I thought Pepper said Tony was still burnt out?”

“He was indeed sleeping, sir,” JARVIS confirms, “and he would like to inform you that he would still be sleeping if it was not for some ridiculous hunk of half-baked testosterone-fuelled man-dough punching a door mechanism to pieces and almost triggering a complete building-wide security lock-down which he has spent the last 15 minutes trying to abort. He asked me to use his exact words, sir.”

“Oops,” says Sam. “Yeah, bit of an accident.”

“Putting it mildly, sir, yes. But you are no longer in danger and the building will shortly be re-secured, as soon as you return to the stairwell. You will be provided with secure access to this area in the future. Once the door has had the dents beaten out of it, of course.”

“Thanks JARVIS. Tell Tony I’m sorry. Guess I wasn’t really thinking straight.”

“I will not repeat Mr Stark’s exact reply, but I believe all is well. He is now going back to bed.”

Steve tries not to sigh. Seems all he can do these days is make a mess of things. 

“Come on,” he says to Sam. “I should head back down. Don’t like having to impose on Pepper by having her babysit for too long.”

“Captain Rogers,” JARVIS interrupts again. “I overheard your conversation and I wonder if you would care for a suggestion?”

Steve looks at Sam, and shrugs. “Fire away,” he says.

“I cannot see into private rooms for the obvious reason of personal privacy, but the observation and panic rooms do not fall into the same category. I could very simply transmit a live stream of the cameras from Sergeant Barnes’ room to your cell phone. That way you would not need to be concerned that he is out of your sight for periods of time.”

Steve’s mind leapt instantly to about a hundred terrible places. Was this a trick, designed to separate him from Bucky? Would the video feed be tampered with, or duplicated, or tapped, or stolen? Would he be shown the same looped footage over and over, believing his friend was safe and secure while Bucky was really being dragged off by HYDRA agents? But JARVIS was some kind of unhackable supercomputer, so Tony claimed. So in the end it all came down to this: did he trust Tony Stark?

“Yes, JARVIS, thanks,” Steve says to the empty air. “That would be great.”

“You are welcome, Captain Rogers. The stream is now live.”

Steve examines his phone. The screen shows Bucky, still curled up unmoving in the centre of the floor. Still grieving for the man who had him tortured and abused for decades.

“Come on,” says Sam, clapping Steve on the shoulder and pulling him from his reverie. “I’ve been up most of the night, and you’re still recovering from major surgery. At the very least, it’s time for breakfast.”

* * *

Sam convinces Steve to stay away from the panic room for most of the day, though his cell phone never leaves his hand. They both go up to the floor that Pepper told them was for set aside for Captain America, and Sam seems to be equal parts astonished, gratified and more than a little alarmed to find his retinal scan has already been granted authorised access to the Avengers floors of the tower. The suite is massive; there’s a master bedroom and at least two guest bedrooms and bathrooms, a living area and kitchen, all decorated in an opulence of red, white and blue. They plough through a bunch of ready meals they find stocked in the freezer, too tired to talk much, and then Sam passes out on one of the guest beds for several hours. Steve leaves him to sleep while he goes down to 83 for his medical. While the nurse checks that the bullet wounds are healing correctly and changes his bandages, Steve watches Bucky on his phone. His friend never moves from his curled up position on the floor. At noon he sees Ricardo and a nurse Steve doesn’t recognise go in to change the IV bag and to give Bucky another dose of food through the feeding tube, and Bucky still doesn’t move. Steve goes down to the lobby to collect a package of stuff he’s ordered for Bucky, and then heads back up to the suite and showers. He doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but he is woken up a few hours later by Sam knocking on the open door frame. 

“Hey, man. Coffee?”

Steve pushes himself upright, stiff to his 93-year-old-bones, and groans “Please.”

Sam goes out, and Steve rubs his eyes, glancing at his phone and refreshing the video feed. Bucky is no longer in the centre of the room; instead he’s now sitting up against the wall in the corner of the vast room. He looks pale and tired. Bucky’s few meagre possessions spread around at his feet and the puzzle book gripped tightly in his real hand. Steve can’t tell from the angle if he’s reading it or just holding it, but either way, it's a lonely image. 

There’s also a text from Barton.

CLINT BARTON: How’s ur buddy?

STEVE ROGERS: Awake. Hasn’t tried to kill me today so that’s something.

CLINT BARTON: Well hurry up and fix him. I demand a sniper show-down.

STEVE ROGERS: I’m trying. Might be a while.

Barton replies with a cartoon of a thumbs-up. There’s still nothing from Natasha.

“What time is it?” Steve says with a yawn as he stumbles out of the room. Sam himself is yawning into the coffee machine. “Anything happen?”

“It's 1900. The doctor called; Winter had a bit of a meltdown earlier.”

“Another one?” asks Steve, but without humour. Sam leans over and holds out his own phone, playback mode. On the screen Steve sees Bucky curled forwards, clawing at the metal in his shoulder, his face a mask of all-too-human horror and revulsion. The tinny recording of his voice is muttering _“Get it off me, get it the fuck off, Stevie, please, anybody...I don’t...Steve, please...”_

The sound of his voice almost breaks Steve, because it’s _Bucky -_ the Brooklyn drawl, the cussing - but then there’s that little _Stevie_ which almost tears him in two, because Bucky has been terrified and pleading, calling for him, and Steve hadn't been there. He hadn’t heard; too busy sleeping in comfort in this massive bed, in this ridiculous apartment. 

The little spark of memory, or whatever it was, lasts maybe less than a minute, before Bucky’s words fall silent, his clawing hand goes still and he curls up foetal once more. A moment later a nurse enters accompanied by two cautious guards and inspects Bucky’s curled-up form, but it’s clear that with only his natural hand he hasn’t managed to do himself any real damage. 

“They upped his sedatives a bit.” Sam says. “But he’s been quiet since then. But look; I just spoke to Hill. She says she’s had an idea about how we might be able to get Barnes to stop trying to kill you, at least for now. Not sure if it’s gonna work, but we can try. Think he’s up to it?”

“Only one way to find out,” Steve says, words full of a confidence he doesn’t feel. 

They make their way down to the basement levels and find Hill waiting for them in the observation room with Dr Pedley. Steve glances through the viewscreen. Bucky is walking slowly from one side of the room to the other, the dark blue blanket that Sam gave him is wrapped around his body and dragging slightly behind him on the floor.

He glances at Pedley, who has three empty coffee cups, a bento box and a stack of notepapers in front of her. She looks pretty awake given she’s probably been here since daybreak. Pedley sees him looking at the papers. 

“I am hoping to record as many of Sergeant Barnes’ behaviours as possible,” she explains. “I need to try and build a profile of his condition so I can start thinking about a treatment plan.”

Steve nods in agreement, though he’s stumped to see how anyone is going to find a way forward with Bucky like this. He draws his eyes away from Bucky and turns to Hill. “You had an idea about the mission?”

“It all depends on how specifically they worded their instructions,” Hill says. “I need to talk to him to find out.”

Sam puts in his ear piece and steps towards the inner door. “Okay,” he says. “Just wait here for now. I’ll go in first, same as before, so I can get Winter used to the idea of a new person. JARVIS, buddy, you on hand if we need a translation?” They’ve stopped JARVIS from speaking aloud within the safe room so as not to freak Bucky out, but his voice comes through in the observation room and over the earpieces.

“ _I’m right here, Sir.”_

“Any advice, Doc?” This is aimed at Pedley. The doctor looks thoughtful.

“Be as honest as you can. If he thinks you’re lying you’ll lose his trust for good. Listen to him, but don’t pressure him to talk if he doesn’t want to.”

Sam nods. “Okay, here goes,” he says. Sam opens the door, and Steve watches on the screen as he walks into the room. Bucky instantly stops pacing as if he has been caught doing something wrong. That he was pacing at all strikes Steve as odd; it occurs to him that pacing is exactly the sort of frustrated, all-too-human activity that HYDRA would have trained out of their operatives. Bucky seems to recognise Sam more quickly this time though and he doesn’t back away, but he does flinch when Sam crosses the invisible threshold that marks Bucky’s massive halo of personal space. Sam stops and slowly sits down on the floor. It’s a smart move. Bucky is now the tallest and most dominant person in the room; it would be very difficult for Sam to attack him from the ground. Sam has made it more difficult for Bucky to feel threatened.

“Hey, Winter.” He says. “How’re you doing?”

Bucky seldom replies to questions about his feelings or pain-levels, and once again, he maintains his silence. But Steve can see where Sam has made a mistake, because now Bucky can’t use his usual trick of staring at the floor to avoid eye contact. He has to look at Sam, or stare straight over his head at the door. Or perhaps that was all part of Sam’s plan. Relax Bucky in one area, and then challenge his comfort zone somewhere else. Bucky struggles for a moment, and then he looks _at Sam_. Not in his eyes, but almost certainly at his face. 

It’s quite the achievement, and the little sting of jealousy Steve feels is mean and petty and unworthy of him, but he feels it all the same. Sam and Bucky have bonded well for the same reasons Sam and Steve have – Sam’s funny, relaxed, loyal, practical and, above all, a ridiculously good friend. He is confident, compassionate and competent and just generally kicks ass. Steve can’t really find fault with Bucky reaching out, and there’s no real surprise that it would be to Sam. People talk about Steve all the time like he is some form of perfect higher being, this walking paragon, a saint amongst men. But Steve is anxious and miserable and lonely and _hates so much_. It’s hard to find much measure of self-worth in comparison to Sam Wilson.

Back in the room, Sam is gesturing to a pile of straps discarded in the corner of the room. 

“You took your sling off. Your arm feeling better?”

Bucky pulls the blanket closer around him, hiding the metal arm. He huffs a sound that suggests impatience and he takes two steps as if he’ll start pacing again. He stops just as suddenly, and stares at the door behind Sam. He says;

“Can’t fight.”

The Russian accent is back. Steve hates it, but not as much as he hates it when Bucky speaks Russian. But he’ll take either over those mute, muzzled silences that Bucky can’t seem to break free from, no matter how hard he tries.

“You do know you don’t need to fight, right?” Sam is saying. “You never have to fight again, if you don’t want to.”

Bucky huffs again, but says nothing. He clearly does not believe that. He glances at Sam again, out of the corner of his eye, and pauses.

“Your arm,” he says, and then;  “Что случилось с твоей рукой?”

 _“Sergeant Barnes would like to know what happened to your arm, Sir,”_ says JARVIS.

Steve glances back at the scene in front of him; Sam is wearing a T-shirt right now and so the bright blue cast coating his right wrist to elbow is clear to see.

“You broke it,” Sam says, without a pause. “At the cabin, when we were attacked? You grabbed my wrist and held it too tightly. Do you remember?”

Instead of answering, Bucky scowls slightly and says; “You shot me.”

Both Sam and Dr Pedley laugh at the wonderfully human response. 

“Yes, I did,” Sam acknowledges. “I guess that makes us even.”

Pedley shakes her head. “He’s a funny guy,” she says to Maria.

Bucky is still peering at Sam’s arm. In perfect English, he suddenly says; “They gonna cut it off?

Suddenly, no-one is laughing.

“No, Winter,” says Sam gently. “They’re not. I don’t heal as quickly as you, so this cast will hold the bone in place ‘til it mends. Six weeks, tops. Then the cast can come off and my arm will be as good as new. Here, want to touch it?”

Sam holds his arm out to Bucky. Bucky stares at it like he does want to, but he doesn’t come closer. After a few moments, Sam lowers his arm again. He changes the subject.

“So, Winter. I have a friend of mine here with me today. She would really like to meet you. Is it okay if she comes in?”

Bucky doesn’t say anything, but he does stare at the door somewhat apprehensively. He lets the blanket slide down his shoulders and places it carefully on the floor. To Steve it looks like he’s freeing his upper body, ready to fight, maybe he shouldn't read too much into it.

“Alright, Maria,” Sam turns his head and calls back towards the door. “I think it’s okay for you to come in now.”

On the screen, Steve sees her walk slowly into the room, until she is level with Sam. Bucky has backed up several metres and Steve sees that he’s pulled the neck of the hoodie back up over his mouth and nose again; he’s concertedly staring at the floor between them so both Hill and Sam are in his peripheral vision. 

“Interesting,” comments Pedley, staring at Bucky’s covered face. “Is he particularly sensitive to perfumes?”

“Probably,” says Steve, who knew that he himself was. “But it’s not a scent. He’s hiding. HYDRA – they made him wear this mask and goggles that covered his face. I think he’s trying to recreate that. He seems to do it when he’s really tired or afraid.”

Pedley writes some notes, and Steve turns his concentration back on the room. Bucky is still far back by the wall, poised uncertainly on the balls of his feet as if ready to fight or run at any moment. Maria sits down next to Sam. She’s holding a bag.

“Hello. I’m Maria, I’m a friend of Sam’s. What should I call you?”

Bucky doesn’t answer of course. He rocks slightly on his toes as if still deciding whether to run or not, and looks over at the door.

“Okay, I’ll call you Winter, then, like Sam does. Do you know where you are right now?”

Bucky glances at Sam and then at the door again, and then he shakes his head.

“You’re in New York City. This building is owned by our friend Tony Stark. I expect you’ll meet him too at some point.”

Bucky mumbles something into the neck of the hoodie that they can’t catch.

“Sorry, Winter, what did you say?” Sam asks.

_“Sergeant Barnes said ‘The mech tech?’, Sir.”_

“Mech tech? Yes, that’s right,” says Sam. “Yes, Tony is going to have a look at your arm, if that’s okay.”

Bucky nods, slowly, and then glances back to Maria.

“I work for the intelligence agency that came to rescue you from HYDRA when they attacked you and crashed the car you were riding in,” Maria continues. “Do you remember...? We’re currently working out of this building for now and we don’t have a name as we are in the process of...rebranding.”

“Rebranding!?” Steve says, into the microphone, highly unimpressed.

Maria continues, not distracted. 

“Winter, we think it is best if you stay here with us for now. We think that HYDRA and probably others too are trying to get to you, but we can keep you safe from them. I will want to ask you some questions about the things you remember; people you’ve met before and places you’ve been, but you don’t have to answer them if you don’t want to, or if you can’t remember. That’s okay.”

Steve frowns and shifts in his seat. It sounds too much to him like Bucky is being read his arrest rights. They haven’t really discussed SHIELD’s...capture?...acquisition? of Bucky yet. Steve had been adamant to Sam and Tony about Bucky being Avengers business, but he might need to have that conversation with Maria too.

Bucky has slowly pulled his face up out of the hoodie, though his gaze is still low. He drops his arms to his sides, as if on parade rest, and the plates in the arm clink softly as they realign. Bucky says, very quietly, “What is the mission?”

Maria and Sam glance at each other. 

“What do you mean, Winter?” Sam asks, and Steve can see he is tense.

“You own me,” Bucky says, staring at the floor. “You said. Моя ми,...m-mission. Кто цель?

 _“Sergeant Barnes is enquiring who his next target is,”_ says JARVIS into their earpieces. Sam looks horrified for a second before he schools his face back into a neutral expression. Steve is on his feet before he knows it, pacing the observation room. Pedley looks for a second like she might intervene, but she says nothing, writing quickly.

“No, Winter,” Sam says, very firmly. “No-one owns you, do you understand? You belong to no-one but yourself. You never have to do a mission again.”

Steve sees Bucky’s eyes flick to Sam, and then to Maria as if to check that what he says can be verified. Then he looks away, glancing towards the door of the room. Steve wonders what he is thinking.

“You already have a mission,” Maria says, seemingly unaffected by Barnes’ statement.“ That Alexander Pierce gave you, that you can’t refuse or terminate. Is that right?”

“Affirmative.”

“If I give you a new mission, will it cancel out your current mission?”

“Negative.”

“State the parameters of your current mission.”

“Two targets, level six,” Bucky replies.

“Confirm the ID of those targets.” Maria keeps pushing. What is she aiming for?

“Steven Rogers, aka Captain America. Natalia Alianovna Romanova, aka Black Widow.”

Maria nods, slowly, and then says; “Steven Rogers, aka Captain America. Not any other aliases. Not Steve.”

Bucky’s face creases for a moment, then relaxes infinitesimally. 

“No,” he confirms.

Hill flashes a bleak smile. “Very well,” she says. “In that case there is someone I’d like you to meet.” 

Outside into the observation room, Pedley says; “Think that’s your cue, Captain.”

Steve breathes deep. It’s the first he’s going to have seen of Bucky, face to face, for days. Since Bucky last tried to beat him to death. He stands up, crosses the room, and his hand hovers for a second at the doorway. He releases the breath and steps inside. 

Everyone tenses up as he walks into the room, but he only has eyes for Bucky. Bucky has dropped his gaze and is staring hard at Steve’s sternum, more concerned with the movements of his body than his face. Steve walks several slow, measured paces and stops, well out of Bucky’s personal space. Bucky doesn’t move.

“Winter,” says Hill, firmly. “This is Steve. Identify this man.”

He can see Bucky’s eyes flicking from side to side, so with an exaggerated care, Steve moves his whole head as he turns to look at Maria, so that Bucky can study him without the chance of their eyes meeting. Maria looks as poised as ever, but Steve sees her eyes widen a little. She’s not quite as confident as she appears.

There is silence for several long moments as they watch Bucky watching Steve. Then very softly, they hear him say;

“Steve.”

“That’s right, buddy,” Steve says encouragingly, overwhelmed, delighted.

“You’re Steve,” says Bucky again.

Then Bucky turns away from Steve, walks back to his corner and sits down.

It’s not much in the way of recognition of all that lies between them. No touches or tears, apologies or explanations. Just one word. A name, Steve's name, from Bucky's mouth. One word can't acknowledge all they've already battled and survived, all they still have to fight against and the bond that ties them, 86 years in the making. But a word isn't a blow or a gunshot, and following it Bucky had turned his back to them, like he was safe and there was no lingering threat of death, no mission between them. The sound of Steve's name from Bucky's mouth is still ringing in Steve's ears like a victory bell. If Bucky can say his name like that, like nothing's changed, maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance they'll make it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by [theAsh0](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theAsh0/pseuds/theAsh0) and [Thepracticalheartmom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thepracticalheartmom/pseuds/Thepracticalheartmom). As ever, I am very grateful for all their help!


	5. Steve

Hill and Sam leave soon after that, confident that whatever hold the trigger words had over Bucky have broken, or at least been subverted, for now. Sam says his goodbyes; he’ll be back before Steve even knows he’s gone. One week, tops. _Take care of yourself, and Winter too. He’s starting to grow on me._

Steve is left alone with Bucky Barnes, and tries to feel lucky, not bereft. Bucky is quiet. He stays in his corner, hidden behind the fortress of his bed, and doesn’t show any inclination to emerge. Steve slides over and sees that he is hunched over the puzzle book, red crayon gripped firmly in the steel fingers. There is wax all over the page.

“Yeah, you always did like puzzles,” Steve says, softly. “How are you finding them? Too easy, I bet.”

Bucky seems to take this as an order and instantly drops the crayon, sliding the book across the floor to Steve. 

“I didn’t mean-” he says, and stops. Too late now. He takes the book, wondering if reading Bucky’s words might help him unlock something of his friend’s thoughts. 

No. The text scrawled across every page is illegible. Even back in the day, Bucky’s handwriting had been pretty scrappy, but true to form he had resisted every effort of the nuns and schoolmasters to force him to use his right hand, like the other kids. But this...this is something else. The metal arm seems to be seriously lacking in fine motor control – perhaps a result of the damage? Steve’s seen the way the Soldier fights, knives preferentially in his real right hand, despite Bucky’s natural favouring of the left. HYDRA had trained that out of him too. Or perhaps the prosthetic has never been quite as sensitive as real flesh and muscle.

That’s all besides the point, though, because whether the atrocious writing is due to the arm’s malfunction or not, all the letters that Steve can make out are Cyrillic anyway. There are numbers too, and circles and crossings-out and arrows, going back and forth from page to page, like a codebreakers’ cheat sheet that fell into a bathtub of crazy. It’s like Bucky is trying to solve all the Sudoku and crosswords in the book together to decode one single answer. Steve forces a smile and hands the book back. 

“Looks great,” is all he can manage. Bucky picks the book back up, silently, but doesn’t write any more. He looks tired.

Steve stays down in the panic room with Bucky for the rest of the night, though it’s almost impossible to tell the passing hours down there except by the way Buck just looks paler as time goes on. Bucky is quiet and stiller too, barely moving from his corner even to flinch, and it’s this more than anything that clues Steve in on just how much the continual damage, stress and lack of healing is really kicking his ass. Around 10pm the medical team arrive to give Bucky his evening tube feed, medications, and a much-needed wash. Tonight Ricardo is accompanied by Bucky’s doctor, Dr Sunil Patel, and the second shift nurse, neither of whom Steve has met yet. Dr Patel shakes Steve’s hand and listens carefully while Steve lists off his concerns about Bucky’s listlessness in a hushed undertone. The nurse, an Afro-Caribbean woman named Evangeline, is so tiny Steve could probably have picked her up in one hand even before the serum. She calls Bucky ‘sweetpea’ and hums softly as she works.

Watching the three of them flutter round the silent Bucky, Steve realises there must be more than happenstance to their diversity. It would be just like Pepper to pick out a medical team who were not only highly competent and level-headed, but also unlike one HYDRA would ever choose to employ. Anything to relax Bucky, let him feel not under threat. Unfortunately, it’s all for nothing. When directed to, Bucky has followed them into the bathroom and stripped off his clothes with a clinical efficiency, but the moment that Dr Patel leans in to look at the black malformation that is Bucky’s side and back, the Winter Soldier dissociates hard and they’re left with little more than a shell. The medical team finish up as quickly as they can and Bucky is soon washed, examined and redressed in blue scrubs, a grey hoodie and socks. They lie Bucky down on his righted bed and he just stares at the ceiling, unseeing. The nurses disappear, quiet and efficient, Ricardo giving Steve a sympathetic thumbs up as they go.

Dr Patel takes Steve out into the observation room to talk briefly about Bucky’s physical symptoms. Emma Pedley has finally gone home and the room is empty, for now. Patel agrees with what Steve and Sam had already suspected. Bucky is suffering from broken bones, internal bleeding, nerve damage, malnutrition, and drug withdrawal. Most of that can be fixed over time with the appropriate surgery or treatments. The most urgent issue is the arm. Before the prosthetic itself can be repaired, Bucky is going to need surgical intervention to mend the tissues the arm is attached to. For that they need a decent understanding of how the arm works. And for that they need Tony Stark. 

After Patel leaves with a stack of Bucky’s medical notes to consider, Steve phones Tony, and then, when he doesn’t pick up, texts. 

STEVE ROGERS: Please, just look at the arm, Tony. I need your help.

STEVE ROGERS: I don’t know what to do.

After 24 minutes, Stark finally texts back.

TONY STARK: Fine. Tomorrow morning. Jeez. 

And then, two seconds later, follows up with:

TONY STARK: FYI dial it down a little next time, those sad puppy dog eyes would thaw a fucking frost giant. 

Steve glances up at the sensor array along the walls, suddenly uncomfortable under the feeling of invisible eyes.

STEVE ROGERS: You’re watching us? 

TONY STARK: It’s my goddamn building, Rogers. I’ll watch whatever I want. Particularly when a certain someone’s house guest is a dangerous psychopath with a long history of violence.

Steve glares at the camera and remembers just in time that flipping Tony the bird is entirely beneath him. Instead he replies.

STEVE ROGERS: If you’re watching then look back through the footage. You see anything that suggests he’s anything more than desperate, hurting and terrified?

Steve stares at the cameras again after he sends that message, hoping against hope to get through to Tony, make him see how important this is, how desperately hurt Bucky is, how much they need him. How none of this is Bucky’s fault, and why can’t he see that?

Tony replies immediately. 

TONY STARK: Lay off the guilt trip, Spangles. I said tomorrow, didn’t I? 

Steve decides to quit while he’s ahead. Tony might be many things, but he’ll stick to his word.

Steve naps next to Bucky’s bed in a chair he’s dragged in from the observation room and dreams of a cold night in a bombed-out church in Saint-Marie-en-Laye and the taste of burnt coffee and cigarettes.

He’s woken up by JARVIS’s voice in the earpiece. 

_“Captain Rogers.”_

Steve jolts up, rubbing his eyes. Somehow, impossibly, Bucky has managed to turn the bed back over and drag it into the corner again in complete silence and without waking Steve. Steve peers around the obstacle from a distance and sees Bucky is curled up on the floor behind the bed on his right side; the metal arm is still strapped in awkwardly against his chest with the sling Ricardo replaced last night. Steve can only see the top of Bucky’s head, but he looks still, perhaps even sleeping.

Hidden behind his defensive wall it might feel like Bucky is frightened of him or trying to block Steve out, but Steve can’t see this as anything but positive. Bucky has moved the furniture again. He wanted the room set out a certain way and so he has made it happen. It’s one of the first clear signs of autonomy, even rebellion, that they have had from him that didn’t involve personal space or that one odd demand for cigarettes.

_“Captain?”_

Steve turns away slightly and touches his earpiece. “Yes, JARVIS?”

_“You have a visitor in the observation room, Captain Rogers.”_

Is it Tony already? It’s not even 0700. Before Steve can ask who it is, however, Clint Barton’s voice comes through the earpiece.

_“Hey, man. It’s Barton. Can I come in?”_

Steve is taken aback. He likes Clint a lot, they’ve run several missions together over the past couple of years under SHIELD but he wasn’t expecting a visitation. Clearly his pause indicates well enough Steve’s question of _why?_ because Clint says:

_“I stuck your buddy with a high voltage arrow that knocked him out for two entire days. Now we’re on the same side it seemed rude not to come and say hi at least. Don’t worry, security already frisked my every cranny.”_

“Uh, sure. Yeah, come in.” 

Steve crosses to the door to meet him. Barton is wearing street clothes – jeans, dark red T-shirt, grey leather jacket - and is carrying a paper bag and three cups in a cardboard holder. 

“You look good for a guy that was bleeding out of his spleen a few days ago,” Barton comments. “Can’t say I’m not jealous.”

Steve takes the drinks. “Thanks, I guess. The upside of having magic blood.”

“There’s a downside?” Clint jokes, but they both know he isn’t really asking.

Steve gestures towards the tipped-over bed. 

“If you came to talk to Bucky I think he’s asleep.”

“Nice fort,” says Clint, and looks around the room a little. “Well, this place is depressing. Not even a table? I bought breakfast.”

Breakfast turns out to be generously-filled pastrami on rye and strong black coffee that Steve drinks too fast even though it’s scalding hot. Clint bought one of each for Bucky too, but as neither is included within Dr Patel’s approved nutrition plan of tube feeds and electrolyte-balancing, high-calorie nutrition formulas, they split all the food between them. They eat sitting on the floor with their backs to the wall and Bucky stays still and silent in the corner the entire time. Steve quietly asks about SHIELD and Clint fills him in on some of what’s been happening in the outside world. Mostly it is politics and disaster management, blame and inquiries, but a number of newly revealed HYDRA bases have also been raided. Clint doesn’t know exactly what they found there, but it wasn’t good.

“You weren’t there?” Steve asks, surprised.

“Nah,” Clint replies. “Stark’s trying to minimise the association between SHIELD and the Avengers for the time being after what happened in DC. So with you out of the picture and Thor in a galaxy far, far away that just means me and Banner keeping our heads down. Not that Banner isn’t used to that.”

“And Nat?”

“She’s around,” Clint says vaguely. “So anyway. What’s it really like down here in a millionaire’s BDSM sex dungeon?”

Steve gives Clint a look that he hopes conveys the correct balance between I-don’t-get-that-reference-but-I-really-don’t-want-you-to-explain-it, but before he can respond verbally there is a sudden flicker of movement and they see Bucky dart silently out from behind the bed and through the door into the small bathroom, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.

Clint glances at Steve but Steve’s already on his way across the room. 

“Bucky?” He asks from outside the door. “You alright in there, pal?”

As he expects, silence is his only response. He knocks but there is still no reply. With a sigh, Steve returns to Barton.

“Do you want me to go?” Clint asks. 

Steve smiles, a little thin. “Don’t worry, it’s not you. He’s probably just throwing up.”

“Yeah, I saw the, uh...” Clint gestures towards his own nose, indicating the NG tube. “Fuckers really messed him up.” He adds, darkly.

Steve can’t fall into that rabbit hole right now. “It’s helping though, the tube. Bucky’s eating something at least. It’s helping.”

They talk softly for a few more minutes about nothing much. After a while, Clint pulls a much worn pack of cards out of his pocket. It’s an old habit from long stakeouts with SHIELD. Though the games themselves changed and evolved over all those years Steve was in the ice, he'd been surprised by how much was the same. Just the feel of the cards in his hands always used to take Steve right back to cold nights behind enemy lines, to the long drag of a hurry-up-and-wait, bets on smokes or chocolate or acorns, to the forging furnace of 1944. Clint deals and Steve plays along but 1944 is gone and all he can see now is Rumlow’s white teeth smiling, Jack Rollins’ scowl as he folds, the lazy amusement of the STRIKE team behind leaning over to watch good ol’ Cap wipe the floor with the commander, when the whole time those men, those very men who had played and joked and fought with him were...were.... 

He’s gripping his cards too tight. Steve forces himself to relax. He’s so focussed on breathing out the betrayal that it’s a moment before Steve notices Bucky has stepped back out of the bathroom again. His socked feet are silent as he walks, and if Steve wasn’t looking right at him, he really could believe the Soldier was no more than the ghost they had all thought him to be.

“Morning Buck,” Steve asks, forcing all trace of the stinging of that treacherous memory out of his voice. “You feeling okay?”

Bucky doesn’t look like he is okay at all. He’s pale and shadowed, curled in around the metal arm with the hunched, wretched look he gets when he’s nauseous. He says nothing but casts Barton a quick, unreadable look and then glances away back towards his corner.

“Hey, man,” Barton says, looking up. He’s holding his coffee in one hand and his cards in the other. Both hands occupied; no way for the Soldier to think he is going for a weapon. Clever. “I’m Clint. I shot you once. Wanted to say I was sorry.”

“Why?” say Bucky, after a long pause.

Steve smiles; it’s the first thing he’s heard Bucky say in hours.

“Because I am,” Clint says with a shrug. “I was just doing what I had to but I’m sorry it meant you got hurt.”

Bucky just stares at Clint’s knees. 

“Don’t sweat it,” says Clint, when it’s clear Bucky won’t answer. “So, Bucky. Guess you’re feeling pretty rough right now, huh? Steve says your arm is getting fixed later...”

The plates in Bucky’s arm grind and whir for a moment.

“You can’t call me that.” Bucky says, voice flat. 

“Okaaay. But it’s what Steve calls you.” Barton says, mildly, and Steve hadn’t noticed until that moment that he is the only person Bucky has allowed to call him by any version of his real name. 

Bucky rises up off his heels for a second as if he is about to run. “I’m not...him,” he pushes out, as if he is speaking through his clenched teeth.

“Hey, that’s fine. It’s up to you. What do you want me to call you, then?”

Silence. Bucky’s face, usually so blank, suddenly cracks into a mask of indecision and anxiety. 

“Я не знаю.” He looks at Steve again as if waiting for his instructions.

“Sam has been calling him Winter,” Steve says, reluctantly. He doesn’t like it but what can he do?

“Fine,” Barton shrugs like it’s no big deal. “‘Winter’ okay with you? You feel up to a round? We can deal you in.”

Steve fully expects Bucky to back away, dive back behind his bed or maybe just freeze. Instead, Bucky takes a few steps closer. He is looking at the cards.

“You remember this?” Steve asks, ever hopeful. “We used to play, in the war. You, me, Dum Dum, Morita. Gabe’s face was always too honest for Poker and Jacques used to cheat like crazy. The pair of you were as bad as each other – used hustle everyone else we ever met over there, but not our guys. Not the Howlies. You remember?”

“Нет.”

Steve doesn’t know why he feels crushed every time he gets that reply, but at least this time Bucky stays hovering nearby, watching them. Steve and Barton continue to play and eventually Bucky sits down. When neither of them look at him, he seems to find his courage and shuffles closer. After another 10 minutes, Steve sees movement out of the corner of his eye and there is Bucky, just metres away, picking up a card off the discard pile. He sniffs it, turns it over and then picks up the rest of the pile.

“Remind you of something?” Barton asks.

“Widow’s hand,” says Bucky. 

“What’s Nat got to do with it?” asks Clint, looking nonplussed but Steve almost falls over. 

“Widow’s hand is a deal in three-handed pinochle. That was always Bucky’s game back then, ‘till we lost the deck somewhere in Czechoslovakia. You remember that, Bucky?”

Bucky does the lopsided shrug that means _I don’t know._ “No,” he says.

They play in silence for a few seconds and Steve just knows Barton is about to ask Bucky something else, something about Hydra or mind control when the main door into the room opens with a _slam_ and Iron Man strides in with Bruce Banner at his heels. Bucky leaps to his feet at the sudden sound, with Steve a microsecond behind. Cards go flying everywhere. 

“Jesus, Tony!” Clint says in surprise.

Bucky freezes for a second at the sight of the red-and-gold robot marching towards him, fear and murder warring in his expression, and then he is surging forward towards the intruder, the metal arm suddenly free of its sling and pulling back for a strike.

“Bucky, no!” Steve manages to yell, leaping forward as as Bucky hurls himself at Iron Man. Bucky’s hand brushes the Iron Man armour just as Steve manages to grab Bucky away and they both spin back with the momentum. Bucky’s reaction turns entirely on Steve as the new threat; he strikes Steve hard with the metal fist and kicks out.

Iron Man is marching forward, one glowing gauntlet raised. “Back-up, Red Scare,” he warns. “Touch me again and I’ll put you in the fucking ground.”

“That? Not helping,” warns Hawkeye, now also on his feet. 

“Tony…” says Bruce from where he’s hovering by the door. He sounds nervous, not what they need right now.

“Bucky, it’s okay,” Steve says, trying to regain his footing and clamp Bucky’s arms still. The other man is utterly silent, twitching and bucking under the restraint of Steve’s hands and it’s hard to tell which is worse, his fear of the intruder or the horror of being touched. The metal fist impacts Steve's head once, twice. Steve sees stars, loses his grip. Bucky slams his unshod foot down Steve’s shin in a move that would have shredded the skin off he was wearing boots, tears himself free from Steve’s grasp and bolts.

The bathroom door slams behind him.

“Uh...I’m not usually one to criticise but was that _really_ necessary?” Clint is talking to Tony, but Steve has already turned his back on the pair of them and is running after Bucky. He comes up short at the bathroom door.

“Bucky?” he calls through the metal. “It’s okay, you’re all right. That’s just the mech tech, you’re not in any danger, Bucky...”

He can hear sounds from the other side of the door; clanking and thudding, a sudden loud crash and then a soft vocalisation, somewhere between a gasp and a sob. He knocks, then tries the handle, but the door won’t budge.

“Everything going about as well as I expected down here then,” Steve hears Stark say. 

“It _was_ going quite well, up ‘till you decided to make a grand fucking entrance,” Hawkeye points out.

“Can’t you get him out of there?” Stark demands of Steve, sounding like a sulky teenager. “I’m here to look at an arm, going to find that hard to do when it’s on the wrong side of a door.”

“Bucky?” Steve calls again, ignoring Stark and the fresh burn of anger. It had been such a good morning, and now this. But they need Tony. This isn’t the time. “It’s okay, pal, it’s just me. Please unlock the door, Bucky.” 

Steve shakes the door again; it doesn’t move. Further smashing sounds emerge from behind it.

There is a loud, muffled sigh over Steve’s shoulder. “JARVIS, open up sub-basement five inner door,” Stark orders.

 _“I have disabled the door lock, sir,”_ Steve hears over his earpiece _, “but the door appears to be physically barricaded.”_

Iron Man turns to Banner. “Bruce, make that door go away,” 

“Tony, I know you don’t really want me to do that, and you know just as well that I’m not going to. Why don’t you let Steve fix this?” While Tony’s in full armour, Bruce is wearing his usual dark slacks, plain blue shirt and a grey suit jacket, but his customary tie is stuffed in a pocket. He is still keeping his distance, hands pressed together like he’s anxious.

“I don’t know _how_ to fix this,” Steve retorts, and he finds that he loses the last threads of his patience. He rounds on Stark. “You didn’t have to come in the suit, Tony. You scared the hell out of him!”

“Uh, pardon me: two dozen assassinations? I scared _him_? As if any sane person would be willing to stand in this room with the Winter Soldier and not be heavily armed.”

“I am,” Steve snaps.

“Me too,” Bruce pipes up.

“Yep, also me,” Clint says. “Ha.”

“Hello? I said _sane person_ ,” Tony retorts.

“I guess that excludes Sam too then,” Steve says. “He’s spent hours with Bucky. So has Maria Hill, and the nurses and Sunil Patel. And Pepper.”

Iron Man visibly flinches at that.

“Fine, so maybe I’m the only one that values my face intact the way it is. Fact is; I agreed to help with your little project, Rogers, that doesn’t mean I have to put myself in danger to do it. My house, my rules. Don’t like it, you can find some other genius to reverse engineer seventy years of advanced bio-prosthetical upgrades and hardware linked into a human fucking nervous system while constantly under the threat of agonising death-”

“Okay, okay.” Steve takes a deep breath. Tries to find his calm, tries to remember that Tony has his own demons too, his own trauma. “You’ve made your point. I appreciate your help. Just...you have to be careful with him, okay? He’s got no idea what’s going on and he’s terrified.”

“Fine,” says Tony. “Now, can we get on with it? I got about four billion other things I could be doing with my valuable time right now.”

In the end, nothing Steve says can persuade Bucky to speak to him or open the bathroom door so Tony has to shoot out the hinges while Steve and Clint force the door open. The bathroom is a write-off. Bucky has ripped most of the bathroom fittings off the walls and wedged them across the doorway and there’s water spraying from about five different places and inches deep on the floor. Bucky is in the corner, bleeding from a dozen scrapes and from the nose where the NG tube used to be. A section of heavy pipe is clutched in his right fist. All of them are tense, ready for the Winter Soldier to come up swinging, but Bucky’s face is blank and empty, and when Steve coaxes him up to his feet, Bucky drops the pipe and lets himself be dragged out of the room without a word.

Steve sits him down in the main panic room on the only chair. Behind him, he can hear Tony bemoaning the state of the bathroom. 

“JARVIS, cut water to sub-basement five. What’s this, like the ninth rebuild?”

“Tenth, sir.”

“I’m charging HYDRA for damages,” Tony complains. “I’m not made of money.”

“Says the billionaire wearing a custom-made weaponised armoured exo-skeleton standing in his company’s multi-million-dollar building in the middle of a city block _that he owns,_ ” Clint responds. “Cry me a river.”

“Hey,” says Bruce, by Steve’s elbow. “Are you okay?” 

He’s crouched down next to Bucky and is talking to him softly. Bucky stares unblinking past him into the middle distance.

“He can’t hear you right now,” Steve explains quietly, as he checks over Bucky’s new scrapes and bruises. “He goes into these... _dissociative_ states when he gets stressed or afraid.”

“Steve, he really doesn’t look so good,” Bruce says, in the same calming voice and Steve suddenly remembers that at least one of his doctorates was the medical kind. He’s taking the pulse on Bucky’s natural hand and the touch hasn’t met with an objection. “He seems like he’s in shock.”

Bucky’s drenched to the skin, pale and shivering and the blank stare isn’t helping matters. But he must have used his arm heavily to trash the bathroom like that and that kind of activity is exactly what they’ve been trying to avoid.

“He’s had slow internal bleeding for days, where the arm is busted,” Steve explains. “And it’s causing him a lot of pain. We gotta get him warm...”

As if by magic, Barton reappears at Steve’s side with an armful of towels that he’s just looted from a guest bathroom down the hall. With Bruce’s help, Steve manages to strip off Bucky’s wet clothes and get him dry, dressed in fresh scrubs and bundled into his blue blanket. He’s still shivering as Bruce carefully refits the sling round the metal arm without touching the plating.

Throughout it all, Clint hovers uncertainly in the background while Tony paces up and down issuing a string of instructions to JARVIS to relay to Pepper about repairs, watching them side on. By the time he’s done, Steve is taking Bucky’s right hand and pushing gentle circles into the palm.

It takes several repetitions before he gets any response; a hitch in Bucky’s even breathing and a shudder through his limbs. Steve calls his name a few times and does the circle once more and Bucky finally shivers himself back into awareness. Steve quickly lets go, moving back, giving him space. Bucky blinks a few times, darts his eyes from Steve to Bruce to Clint to Iron Man standing by the bathroom door. Then he looks past and through the broken door to the room beyond. The one he’s just destroyed.

“It’s okay, Bucky. We know you didn’t mean-”

Too late. Bucky slides off the chair onto his knees with a thud. He drops his head and his right hand comes up to latch onto the back of his skull. The left arm makes a grinding noise and hums like a swarm of angry bees but it doesn’t move. Bucky kneels silently at Steve’s feet while the others stare in a sort of horror at the silent submission.

“What the...” starts Bruce.

“That’s...” says Clint. “Oh, that’s so wrong...Why is he doing that?”

“He thinks he’s going to be punished.” Steve explains, bleakly. He feels like he’s going to vomit. He crouches down at Bucky’s side.

Iron Man’s face plate rises. “Christ,” Tony mutters. “Trashing the place and getting naked in front of a room full of people wasn’t off-putting, that’s an entry requirement to most Stark house parties. But this? This is taking uncomfortable and horrifying to a whole new level.”

“Come on, Bucky,” Steve says softly, ignoring their audience. “You know you don’t have to do that. We’ve talked about this. No-one is going to hurt you and you’re not being punished, okay? Come on, stand up.”

Bucky lowers his right arm and slowly stands up. He’s silent still, and staring blankly at the floor. The blanket slides off his shoulders to puddle at his feet as he gets up but Bucky makes no move to catch it. Steve grabs it and gently rewraps Bucky in it; the other man twitches and trembles at the touch but doesn’t do anything. Steve wonders when he’s due his next painkillers.

“Hey,” he says. Bucky doesn’t respond, concealed behind the jagged curtain of his damp hair. Steve ducks his head a little to look into Bucky’s eyes. He is still staring fixedly at the floor but Steve can see that crease on Bucky’s forehead that he’s starting to recognise as a sign of stress. The laughter lines he used to know are long gone.

“Bucky, Tony – he’s the mech tech - is going to run some scans on your arm now, okay?” Steve tells him, low. “I want you to stand still. You mustn’t touch him. It won’t hurt, so there’s no reason to be frightened. I’ll be here the whole time, okay. Tony?”

Tony has been hanging back in uncharacteristic silence. He’s staring at the arm.

“Nope,” he announces at last, stepping forward. “Forget it. It’s not happening.”

Steve can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Tony...”

“Don’t be a dick, Tony,” Clint warns.

“If you’d all like to hear me out before leaping like elegant mountain goats straight to the wrong conclusion,” Stark says, snappily. “Can’t do the scans I need to _in here_ . The wall-mounted sensors down here aren’t sensitive enough and turns out the scanners I’ve got in this baby,” he gesticulates to his own right gauntlet, “aren’t calibrated right yet. Hot off the assembly line, remember? This thing isn’t even through beta testing yet mostly ‘cause someone decided to trash three helicarriers and an international spy agency and make my life into a huge fucking mess. So, point is, I need _him_ in my lab if you want your blueprints. And as there are going to shortly be hoards of sweaty workmen in here rebuilding the entire sub-basement’s plumbing, now seems like as good a time as any.”

“Wait...” says Steve, incredulous. “After all this – cuffs, armed guards and locked panic rooms, you’re going to just let him walk into your workshop?”

“I’m not sure that’s your best ever idea, Tony,” says Bruce. “For one, I don’t think he’s well enough to get that far.”

They all look back to Bucky who is swaying on his feet. Steve pushes him back down into the chair.

“Okay, so just get the prosthetic off and take it with you,” Clint suggests. “Then you can take your time looking it over and Barnes can stay camped out here.”

“You don’t think if it was possible to remove the damn thing I wouldn’t have done it the moment he stepped into my building?” Tony snaps. “And no: the last thing I want is the Terminator anywhere near me, my lab, or anything or anybody I give a damn about. If he was on the fucking moon it would be too close. But I’m not HYDRA or the Ten Rings. I don’t get my jollies seeing people in pain. No-one could fake being _this_ fucked up.”

“Tony. Are you absolutely sure about this?” Steve asks again, putting aside Stark’s bizarre irrational anger. Bucky is sick and Steve himself is sufficiently recovered 

that he’s pretty confident he can contain Bucky alone if he freaks out and starts attacking, particularly if he is unarmed. At the moment he certainly seems calm but, as what just happened with the bathroom demonstrates, Steve really can’t tell what is going to set Bucky off.

“Yeah, whatever.” Tony says. “Besides, my lab is one of the most secure rooms in the building. I’ll have the corridors and elevators evacuated and you three can be prisoner transport security detail.”

“Thanks,” says Bruce, uncomfortably.

“I actually had stuff to do today...” Clint points out.

“Cancel it,” says Stark, with a shrug. “We’re doing this now.” 

He drops the face plate. “Let’s get this shitshow on the road.”


	6. Asset

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd again by [theAsh0](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theAsh0/pseuds/theAsh0). Very grateful!

Steve tells it to walk and so the Asset walks. It has been given no mission. There are no active targets. There is only pain and orders and simple compliance. Those at least it understands. That is a familiar structure from which it can hang the tattered remains of its consciousness. Obey.  _ Obey. _

It has _fucked up_ again. There is a fresh, new, blank space in its mind. Missing time. Impressions, flashes of water and cold, shouting, of blank and blinding terror. It doesn’t know what it did. They are walking it to a lab, it heard the handlers say. That means recalibration, at least. Behavioural correction. The Chair. The Asset shivers. 

It follows the robot and watches as it walks: left foot, right foot,  _ clunk clunk clunk. _ It’s heavy, perhaps 180 kilograms. There is a man inside, a mech tech in a robotic suit; the Asset had seen his face when the mask lifted. He probably makes up less than half of the total weight. The armour is weaponized, that is what the soldier with the playing cards had said. The Asset sees nothing on the robot that it can recognise as a gun or a blade. Perhaps its weapons are non-conventional.  _ Touch me again and I’ll put you in the fucking ground.  _ A glowing circle on the palms, the chest plate. Weapons or power source? Either way, those would be the places to target. And the eyes. But the suit’s strength has not yet been tested. Threat level and appropriate method of termination unclear at this time. 

Perhaps they are giving all the technicians and handlers suits now, to protect them from the Asset and its malfunctions. Or maybe there is no man inside at all. Perhaps the body is all just robot with the flayed skin of a human face sewn up inside the helmet. Perhaps  _ that  _ thought should shut up. The Asset knows better than to speculate. Shut up. Focus.

Steve walks at the Asset's side, not touching but close. Two others walk behind, out of its sight. The soldier with the playing cards; he walks behind on the right. He has two hand guns now that he collected from the guards outside the door to the cell. He must be STRIKE, perhaps the new commander, though his step is light, like Romanova. Probably sniper trained. He lacks the assertive swagger the Asset expected. Neither has he yet shown the usual brutality, but the presence of senior officers can usually curb that. The STRIKE soldier is wearing an earpiece in both ears; tiny, almost imperceptible, but the Asset is trained to look for such things, for weaknesses it can utilise. 

Behind on the left is another man, the one who looked like a technician and spoke softly. He’s not a trained soldier, he’s walking too close; it would be the work of a moment for the Asset to plant its feet, swing the arm back, crack the man’s head open against the wall. He’s small, weak, appears unarmed, but there is something else about him, something...his smell is an animal scent, one of a predator, a smell that has the Soldier’s brain screaming _danger,_ _get out, get away,_ and when the Asset had looked into the man’s eyes it had seen pure _rage._ His gaze burns like a bright light against the Soldier’s spine and it thinks that perhaps that man is the most dangerous of all of them. 

They walk through the corridor until they reach an elevator. The elevator is also empty so the Asset keeps moving all the way to the rear of the car until it can put its back to the wall. The handlers don’t tell it to stop. The Soldier wants to keep the dangerous man in sight but it has to close its eyes as the car starts to move, dizzy. Don’t fall. A touch on the flesh arm is like a buzz of static; the Asset twitches and snatches the arm away. Steve murmurs an apology. 

They arrive on Floor 79. A curving flight of stairs takes them down and the Soldier is led into a huge room. The overhead lights are so bright, and so are the screens, glass and steel, reflections, angles and  _ noise _ , so much noise, and a dozen machines all around moving by themselves, beats, hammering and spinning and flickering in and out of his peripheral vision. Can’t focus, it’s too much to process, it’s overwhelming, it’s- 

“JARVIS, pause all lab work. Music off, screens off, dim the lights forty-per-cent.”

“It’s okay, Bucky,” someone is saying. “It’s okay. You can stand up, it’s quieter now.”

It takes some time but the Asset eventually remembers how to breathe. It opens its eyes, takes its hands away from its ears and slowly rises from its crouch. The room is darker and still, at last. The booming sound is gone. There are no other handlers or soldiers or technicians inside the lab. Only the four men it came in with. Field Handler Rumlow is not there. Secretary Pierce is not there.

Oh yes. Secretary Pierce is dead.

The mech tech in the robot suit is talking again, endlessly, and walking across the open floor. 

“Come on, Bucky,” says Steve. “This way.”

The Asset follows. This looks like no laboratory it has ever seen before. It is all cylinders and machines and gleaming metal, bright lines and daylight and glass. More like a mechanics’ workshop, except even with the light dimmed it feels  _ clean _ , despite the mess _.  _ The dangerous man sits down on a lab stool to one side. He looks comfortable in this environment. The new STRIKE soldier, however, looks less relaxed. He doesn’t sit; stands leaning against one of the benches, looking about. He has been in this room before but not often and he is not relaxed around the scientific equipment the way the other men are. Steve comes to a stop so the Asset stops walking too. They have reached a large workbench which might be the centre of the room.

“...not exactly set up for this,” the mech tech is saying. Its voice has turned human again; the face plate has lifted aside. He is tapping invisible keys, the suit’s metal fingers dancing. “But improvisation is one of my many, many skills. Let me just make some minor adjustments to the resolution and we’ll see what...” 

The Asset lets the noise fade back out. The words are not intended for its comprehension, and despite the quiet in the room, there are still too many things clamouring for its attention. Lights, sensations. Voices. The smell of grease and hot plastics and that brown bitter drink the Asset can’t recall the name of. What is lacking, though, is the stench of blood and burnt skin and excrement it has come to expect from mechanical repair. 

“Damn it!” says Steve, suddenly, and his voice cuts through the haze in the Soldier’s mind. “I forgot that the nurses were due at nine.” He rubs his eyes, a sign of tiredness. “One minute, I just gotta call the med bay or they’re going to be panicking, wondering where their patient has gone. Can you....”

“Sure, okay,” says the dangerous man. Steve glances at the Asset briefly and then walks away. He doesn’t go out of sight, just to the base of the stairs. He takes out his phone. 

The Asset pulls his eyes away and glances around again, quickly. “Questions…?” the Asset asks, softly. Sam Wilson had said questions were allowed but Sam Wilson is not here. Perhaps he is dead too.

“Uh, guys, he just said something,” said the STRIKE soldier, turning. "What is it, big fella?"

“Questions are permitted?” The Asset asks, looking down. Its voice is rough, dry, like flakes of rust. It’s not sure when it last spoke.

“Uh, Yes. Sure.”

“Where is the Chair?”

“A...uh, chair?” says the mech tech. “You want to sit down?”

Wipe him and start over.

“The Chair,” the Asset repeats. “Recalibration.” 

“Sure, we can find you a chair,” The mech tech says, distractedly. “Dummy, find the man a chair.”

“Are you talking to me or the robot?” The new STRIKE soldier asks. 

“Actually the robot, but I suppose you’ll do as a semi-competent substitute. Bring that one over, will you?”

“Here, Winter,” says the dangerous man. He is talking to the Asset and is holding out a handful of items; a bottle, a few small shiny packets. “It is Winter, right? Do you want something to eat or drink? Got a couple of protein bars here. There’s coffee if you prefer, or tea or...” 

The Asset’s eyes fall on the bottle but it has no intention of getting close enough to the dangerous man to take it. Fortunately the man seems to understand and he puts the bottle and the packets down on the workbench and steps back. The Asset hesitates a moment longer, glancing over across the room towards Steve.

“You can take them. They’re for you,” says the dangerous man with a sad smile and so the Asset snatches up the water. It snaps open the bottle and pours the water down its throat as quickly as possible before it is taken away.

“Easy,” says the dangerous man. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

It isn’t an order to stop. The Asset finishes the water, then recaps the empty bottle and puts it back down on the side. It isn’t sure what the wrapped bars contain or what it should do with them, so for now it just holds one in the flesh hand, awaiting further instructions.

“Sir’s chair,” says the STRIKE soldier as he pushes over a black wheeled chair. It looks remarkably ordinary. The wrist restraints have gone and so have the foot plates and the halo. But there have been many chairs over the years and the Asset isn’t sure how long it has been since it was last out of the ice. Perhaps technology has improved the design to such an extent that the Chair is no longer recognisable. No-one tells it to sit so it stays standing.

The STRIKE soldier shrugs and walks back towards the windows, keeping well out of arm’s reach. The pistols are still holstered but he keeps his hand close to his hip. 

Steve returns from his phone call.

“Heavy Metal here just drank 16 fluid ounces of water in nine seconds,” says the mech tech. He points at the Asset without looking up from the screen.

“If he does have internal bleeding, he’s probably dehydrated,” says the dangerous man.

“I know,” says Steve. “I’ll make sure they reconnect his IV when we go back down to the basement. He pulled out his NG tube too; he’s gonna hate that going back in.”

“Oh. Is he nil by mouth? I didn’t know that; I just gave him a protein bar.”

“Don’t worry, he won’t eat it. Not unless you order him to. He’s not having a great relationship with food right now.” Steve approaches the Asset. “You feeling okay, buddy? Sure you’re still up for this?”

The Soldier is not sure what the ‘this’ that it is up for comprises, and besides, it is quite aware that it does not have a choice in the first place. 

“Да,” it says.

“We nearly ready, Tony?”

“Looking good at this end. JARVIS?”

_ “I am detecting no abnormalities, Sir. The scans should operate as expected.” _

The voice that fills the room does not belong to one of the Americans. No doubt there is a control room somewhere, with further agents observing them through cameras and reporting back through a loudspeaker system. Hardly a cause for alarm. The Asset looks up when it senses a sudden stillness as if all four of the Americans have tensed up at once.

“Oh, that’s just JARVIS,” Steve says, casually. “He’s a computer. Nothing to worry about.”

Tony Stark rolls his eyes, a gesture indicating frustration. “He’s a multifunctional systems control construct, actually, based around a complex self-directed autodidactic artificial intelligence. I talk to him instead of real people because I made him and therefore he is simultaneously vastly more intelligent and sucks a whole lot less than the real thing.”

The Asset nods and files all away the information for future reference. It is surprised to find itself asking a question.

“JARVIS. It functions...inside the building?”

Tony Stark nods. His eyes are wide; he seems surprised by the question. “Kinda. His system operates throughout the tower, although he can be remote accessed from any appropriately networked Stark tech. Why?”

The Asset shrugs again.

The mech tech now narrows his eyes in suspicion. “ _ Why?”  _ He asks again, an edge in his voice.

“Tony.” Steve says

There is a tense silence. The Assets head pounds as stress and fear start to churn in its gut. Then a strange sensation, something crinkling against its flesh fingers. It looks down at the packet in its right hand. It had been given something. It does not get given things that are not weapons, normally. The Asset grips the shiny thing, tightly, smooths the thumb over the shiny foil.

“Fine,” snaps Tony Stark. “Sit your ass down, comrade. Let’s get this ordeal over with.”

The Asset interprets from the mech tech’s gesture that these orders are intended for it, so it turns and sits in the chair. Steve the Handler is hovering nearby; the STRIKE soldier and the dangerous man are watching it carefully. This is the structure the Soldier is familiar with. This is how things are meant to be. Order from chaos. It relaxes.

The mech tech turns back to the screen and the keyboard. 

“You need to take that sling off him,” he says, looking at Steve. “Gotta see the arm moving.”

Steve steps closer and reaches for the straps around its arm. Steve speaks low, a constant stream of reassurance as he slips off the cloth restraint. He is very careful not to touch the metal, which is correct handler behaviour. Only mech techs are supposed to touch the hardware outside of training scenarios. The arm has been held still for some time so the Soldier clenches the hand shut quickly to test the motion. No additional malfunction is apparent, but at the movement the mech tech slams the faceplate of its helmet closed. The Asset thinks he is probably scared. They all look scared, even the dangerous man. The Asset lowers the metal hand to its knee and waits, shivering. 

“Okay." The mech tech is talking again, voice echoey and mechanical. "No-one just died so I guess that means we’re good to go. JARVIS, fire up pre-visuals. Hold your arm out, Red October. And stop twitching; Jeez, you got ants in your pants?”

There is silence for a second.

“He’s asking you to hold out the arm, Bucky.”

The Asset raises the arm out to the side, level with the shoulder. The limb buzzes and hums, and pain like lightning burns down its back and shoulder. It hurts but the Soldier doesn’t lower the arm. It has been given an order.

“Okay, JARVIS; surface level scan first. Let’s see what we’re up against.”

_ “Running scan now, sir.” _

The scan itself is barely noticeable. There is no audible sound and no sense of vibration or pressure, but it goes on for a long time. The mech tech directs the building to focus scans on various parts of the arm; the plating, the joints, the fingers, and each time the building says  _ “the scan is complete,”  _ a blue image of part of the arm appears in the air over the work table, like a phantom limb. The mech tech and the dangerous man stand side by side, pulling the ghost images apart with their hands, twisting them, turning them inside out. The spin of the images, the blinding lights, the ceaseless chatter of the Americans’ words; these things all batter against the Asset’s brain, twisting deep down into nausea in its guts. Specks of blackness flicker across its vision, perhaps dirt in the corneas. It should have been wearing the goggles. The Soldier hasn’t been ordered to keep its eyes open but even after they close, the eyelids prove a thin barricade against the onslaught of images, of seeing its limb being torn apart in the Americans’ hands over and over. It blocks it all out because the images too are a distraction; it needs all its concentration for breathing now, pounding head, drawing in frozen air through the fire in its torso, the shards of pain like stab stab stab down into spine and ribs and...

“Tony, stop. Stop!”

“Woah, Cap, what’s going on? We’re nearly done...”

“Trust me, we’re done. Look at him!”

“Shit...”

“Get something for him to rest the arm on. Careful, don’t touch it...”

“It’s just a scan, it shouldn’t hurt...” 

“Bucky? Buck, can you hear me?”

The Asset swallows down the rising nausea and twitches its head, once, for yes. Its face feels wet.

“You can lower the arm now.” It’s Steve’s voice. “Lower the arm, buddy. There, that’s it. That’s great.”

The limb comes to rest on a surface and the weight on the shoulder is suddenly lifted. The Soldier’s entire side spasms and relaxes as the pain stops. The arm twitches and then lies still and the plates  _ clink _ and fall open. 

The Asset takes a sharp breath of relief and opens its eyes. 

The four men are watching it. Steve’s face says  _ fear _ and  _ anxiety  _ and  _ guilt.  _ The Asset looks away as he crouches down at the Asset’s side, holding out a paper towel. To close.

“Here you go, pal. I’m so sorry, we didn’t realise it was hurting you so bad. We should have stopped.”

The Asset doesn’t know what the paper towel is for. It slowly moves the left arm up to take it but Steve pulls the cloth back. 

“Stop, Bucky. For God’s sake, stop moving your arm. It’s okay. I understand now that it hurts, Buck, but if we ask you to do something and it hurts, you have to tell us before it gets this bad.”

“It doesn’t hurt,” the Asset says, with words that rasp across its tongue, choke in its throat.

Steve’s face pinches in tight, and now he looks sad too. 

“We, uh,” says the mech tech. The face plate is open again and he is looking uncomfortable. “We got almost all of it scanned. Seventy-five-point-two percent. But I need more of the shoulder and I need to see him move the upper arm.”

“He can’t, Tony. Look at him.”

“If you want this thing fixed, he’ll have to. You said it yourself, Cap, the problem’s getting worse and it sure as hell isn’t going to fix itself.”

“Can’t you drug him?” asks the STRIKE soldier. “A local at least. So it doesn’t hurt so much when he moves it.”

“Can’t risk it,” says the dangerous man. “He’s already on one hell of a meds cocktail to ease him through the benzo withdrawal; anticonvulsants, sedatives and antiemetics, and even that much is a risk, given his psych eval was done through a window and I haven’t even scratched the surface of HYDRA’s mystery serum. Besides, at the moment, awful as it is, the pain is serving a purpose; it’s telling him when to stop moving before he causes more damage.”

“Assuming no-one  _ orders _ him to carry on moving,” the STRIKE soldier mutters. “Then apparently he’ll do it anyway.”

“Alright then, Steve, you’ll have to hold his arm,” says Stark. “Take the weight off the shoulder. Move the joint for him.” 

“I can’t,” says Steve. “He won’t let me touch it. Only mech techs – mechanics - are allowed.”

“Fucking hell,” says Tony Stark. The face plate snaps back into place. “Fine.”

The mech tech in the suit marches over to the Asset. The eyes glow dully inside the red-and-gold mask. James Barnes’ body surges with cortisol and adrenaline, the chemicals of fear swirling into the bloodstream. But this is the Chair. This is maintenance. It must not interfere with the mech techs. That is the order of things.

“Slowly...” Steve is saying. “Careful, Tony. Don’t hurt him...”

The mechanical suit stops at the Soldier’s side. He turns back to the other men “Bruce,” the robot says. “I just had an idea, and because it was mine, it is therefore brilliant. In Store 2, there’s another one of those portable neuroimagers I took apart for the BARF prototype...”

“On it,” says the dangerous man, standing up. 

“I’ll help,” says the STRIKE soldier.

The pair disappear around the corner of the lab. 

“A neuroimager?” It’s Steve’s voice.

“Brain scanner,” says the mech tech. “It’s a new design, so we can run it while he’s sitting up and twitching like an addict rather than the usual hassle of lying flat in an MRI. If I can get it hooked up and working again, it’ll show up a 3D image of Barnes’ brain centres. Apparently your little buddy is incapable of knowing when something fucking hurts, so if it lights up like up like the fourth of July you’ll know I’m about to tear his arm off.”

Steve grabs the mech tech’s shoulder and takes him some distance away. They talk quietly but intensely. The Asset does not listen to their conversation. Its head feels like radio static; crinkly and crumpled and pounding like a drum.

The dangerous man and the STRIKE soldier come back pushing a trolley. They wheel it around behind the Chair and the Asset feels its heart rate increase. 

“I’ll hook it up, Bruce,” says Steve, returning. “But you’ll have to tell me what to do.”

There is some conversation and movement, clicks and whirrs, and then a jumble of wires on a metal cap is lowered down over the Soldier’s head. The metal grips loosely onto skin or hair, weight resting on the crown of James Barnes’ head, soft pressure down its skull and cheek bones to touch cold against the nape of the vertebrae. 

Steve is saying; “it’s all right, Bucky, just keep calm, keep breathing pal, you’re fine, it’ll all be over soon,” but the Soldier’s stolen heart is booming like it’s the only thing left inside a hollow chest, echoing with resonant emptiness. The pulse in the head throbs where the metal touches, pressing in behind its eyes. It grips the  _ protein bar _ tightly in the flesh hand, the scratchy foil drawing it back, anchoring it into the flesh.

The Chair, the metal on its head. They will wipe it and start over. The Asset knows this is what it needs; to be wiped clean. It thought this was what it wanted, when James Barnes’s ghost had begun to creep back through, slipping in like cold air through cracked glass, peering out through possessed eyes, whispering into its thief’s ears. The Soldier isn’t unstable or erratic. It’s  _ haunted.  _ They should wipe it and start over. But now, for the first time in a long time, it has been awake and remembering long enough that it has things to lose. Apple sauce, crayons. The blue blanket. It hasn’t yet solved the code book. It hasn’t finished the mission. It is going to lose Steve. 

For the first time, the Asset does not want to forget.

“Please.” The word slips out though it is hardly recognisable. “Пожалуйста..."

It doesn’t beg. It is a machine. The Soldier, cringes, expecting a blow.

“Uh oh. Steve,” says the STRIKE soldier. “Steve, he’s started crying again.”

“Oh Jesus, Bucky. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. We’re not doing anything bad, I swear. This isn’t going to hurt you. We just need to know if you’re in pain or not. Please, don’t cry. It’s going to be okay.”

“Should we stop? We should stop.”

“Can’t. If you want a way out of this, we have to get those scans. The Russians fused this thing to his goddamn spinal column. I’m not messing around with wetware with only half the data.”

“Okay, okay. Just, please, let’s get this done as quickly as possible. Okay, Bucky. Look at me. Tony, the mech tech, is going to touch the arm now. He’s trying to get enough information to repair it, to do the maintenance you needed. You have to keep calm, okay? I’ll be here the whole time and this is  _ not _ going to hurt. I want you to nod to say you understand.”

The Soldier nods. It opens its mouth for the toothguard but it is not offered.

“Did you want to say something, Bucky?”

The Asset closes its mouth.

“All right, Tony. I guess we’re as ready as we’ll ever be.”

“Okay, team, let’s pick up where we left off. JARVIS, start on Scan 737, posterior rotator cuff. Bruce, fire up the neuroimager and visualise output at one-thousand percent. Steve, keep Barnes from killing us all. Barton, stand there and look pretty.”

There is a deep humming, like an engine. The light in the room changes. 

“Holy shit,” says the voice of the dangerous man/Bruce behind them. “Guys, are you seeing this?”

“Yeah,” says Steve, still crouched at the Asset’s feet. “No idea what I’m looking at though.”

“Boys and girls,” the mech tech replies and he sounds cold, bitter. “This is your brain on cryogenics. 

“The orange is representing sensations of pain,” says another voice, far off. “This red area here is fear.” 

“That’s a  _ baseline _ ? You haven’t even touched the arm yet!”

“This guy needs therapy even more than you, Tony.”

“Not funny, birdbrain.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

“What are those black areas? There’s two, three, four..Nine. There are nine of them.”

“Black means no activity, Cap. No activity means those nine bits of his brain are  _ dead _ .”

Someone says, “Fuck.” Everyone else is quiet.

“One thing at a time.” The mechanic says. “Okay. Lifting the arm now.”

The Asset feels the metal fingers of the mech tech’s suit close about its wrist and elbow. There is a moment of stillness and then the arm lifts. The Soldier can’t help but tense and the plates respond, shifting and rippling down the arm. The mech tech makes an oddly appreciative noise and Steve says, “Easy, Bucky.”

After that, no-one addresses it for some time and it’s ready for the pain but no more pain comes so the eyes close and the mind goes blank. It’s not a shut down and not quite standby; somewhere it can still feel the arm being lifted and straightened and rotated, still hear the voices of the Americans as they talk about the metal limb, about pain levels, about neural interfaces. At one point the mech tech twists the limb in some particular way that means the broken thing in the shoulder is knocked loose and lightning sparks up and down the arm, making the fingers spasm and close, making the mech tech drop the arm, making the Asset curl forward in the Chair and bite its flesh hand and hold its breath against the pain.

It isn’t aware of much at all after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has left comments and kudos, or just read and enjoyed!   
> I really like this chapter; it was super fun to write.


	7. Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta read by [theAsh0](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theAsh0/pseuds/theAsh0).

Steve takes Bucky home.

The ordeal of getting the arm completely scanned and digitised lasts four hours and it is mid afternoon by the time they call a halt. Tony thinks they have most of the information they need, which is just as well because by the time they finally stop, Bucky is hyperventilating and non-responsive, and the fear and pain centres of his brain are pulsing red and orange on the neuroimager screen like a drumbeat.

But Tony and Bruce have their data; that is the main thing. The hologram of the arm, formed of 1128 separate scans, hangs in the air in front of them; fingers splayed; tendons, muscles and bone dripping from the artificial shoulder like entrails. It’s hideous. Horrifying. Tony’s eyes have been lit up like Christmas lights from the moment the first hologram of the exterior plating appeared. It’s the truest resemblance that Steve has seen between Tony and Howard – that look; childish excitement bundled with cold calculation, the need to investigate and to understand and to tear things apart to see what makes them tick. To make things better, whether they needed improving or not. The allure of the technology has captured Stark’s attention, that’s what Steve was counting on, just as it is compassion for the broken man that wears it that has drawn in Bruce.

Both Tony and Bruce agree that it is going to take some time before they’ll be able to come up with a plan of attack, though. Bruce has found a prosthetics specialist in Europe, named Harry Mak, that he wants to bring into the fold and then they’re going to brainstorm the reverse blueprints in detail, figure out what’s not working as well as it should and which bits need to be repaired and what has to be scrapped entirely. Only once all the variables have been considered are they going to be able to sit down with Bucky’s doctors and draw up a surgical plan. Then it’s just a matter of stemming the slow bleed, repairing torn tissue, splinting bones and letting him heal while they get the replacement pieces machined and ready for installation.

“We’ll need the rest of the week to look all this over,” says Bruce, “We’ll look at the numbers and run some simulations, then we’ll get together with Dr Mak to discuss how we’re going to proceed with the prosthetic...”

“Eighteen hours,” says Tony, with that fire still in his eyes.

Bruce almost chokes on his green tea. “Tony! This is completely unknown technology with someone’s health at stake, we have to...”

“Fine,” Tony concedes. “Twenty hours. But if by lunchtime tomorrow I don’t know everything there is to know about what HYDRA considered advanced medical treatment seven decades ago then I don’t deserve to call myself a genius. Which I do.”

Tony’s need to tinker does come with some more immediate benefits though. He already disabled the remotely activated explosive device in the shoulder, as well as the two tracking dots. And now the moment that Bucky folds up with that intermittent sparking pain in his shoulder that occasionally cripples him, Tony has popped open a panel on the bicep and identified the problem within seconds. Several hair-thickness wires forming part of the artificial brachial plexis have been torn loose inside the shoulder. Twisting the arm to the right makes the live ends shift and arc an electrical current straight through the synthetic muscle of the upper limb. Tony can’t fix it without taking a bunch of panelling off, but he does least insulate the wires so they’ll stop shorting out. It’s a start. A small, small drop of relief into a vast ocean of damage, but a start, nonetheless.

The science nerds have already half forgotten Steve, Clint and Bucky are even there as they argue over power sources, but there is still one more problem to be solved.

“So where’re you gonna stick this guy for the next twenty hours?” Clint, ever practical, points out. “I doubt even your money will have the dents beaten out of that basement already.”

Stark scowls.

“Agent Barton is right, sir,” JARVIS chimes in. “The foreman insists on two more days for the plumbing in the lower basement bathroom to be completed and the doors repaired.”

“Plus,” Barton adds, pointing to Bucky who is a silent miserable lump on the wheelie office chair. “The guy missed his morning medical, hasn’t eaten anything, and quite frankly, he looks like a pile of shit.”

“We won’t be able to start any treatment or surgeries for probably a week, even if we can agree our course of action,” Bruce agrees. “Barnes is going to have to sleep somewhere.”

“Well, that’s a no brainer. He can bunk up with you, right Steve? It’ll be like the good old days, with your happy-go-lucky band of army chums.”

Steve is taken aback. Stark has been so on edge, so highly strung about even being near Bucky that Steve couldn’t envisage him letting the Soldier loose anywhere in the Tower, perhaps ever. “Tony, are you nuts? You’re actually going to release him from custody?”

“Don’t think you can handle it, Rogers?” Tony snarks at him. “Not like we have a lot of choice. I foolishly didn’t think we’d need more than one impenetrable basement dungeon when I designed this place.”

Steve frowns. Only a few hours ago Tony had been all but willing to shoot Bucky on sight and he’s remained in the Iron Man suit the entire time they’ve been in the workshop; the first time Steve has ever seen him do that.

“You don’t trust him as far as you could spit, Tony. What’s going on?”

“Probably a lot less far, actually. Expectoration was an old hobby of mine.”

“Tony.”

“Fine, you're gonna make me spell it out? I subverted JARVIS’s privacy protocols so he’s tracking every move your buddy makes. If Barnes takes one step off Floor 92 without an escort, uses any elevator, or any form of external communication without prior authorisation, JARVIS will flood his location with an airborne incapacitating agent which could knock out a T-Rex in under 15 seconds. Believe me, Cap. Your pal is very much still in custody. My building. My rules.”

Steve is less than happy that Tony violated Bucky’s privacy like that but there really isn’t anything he can do about it. To some extent, Tony’s right - it is his building, and if Steve and Bucky want to stay here, then they really need Tony’s help. If this is the cost...perhaps they just have to grin and bear it for now.

Less than thirty minutes later, Hawkeye has escorted them all the way up to the entrance hall of Captain America’s suite on Floor 92. He doesn't come inside but waves them goodbye from the elevator with a muttered “Good luck.”

It suddenly strikes Steve as he stands there before the front door, with Bucky a silent, twitching shadow at his side, that Bucky really is here. In the 21st century, in Steve’s rooms in the safest tower block in New York guarded by the most powerful computer in the world and surrounded by security guards, special agents, and their superpowered friends. Steve just wishes this felt more like a victory and less like another capitulation. Another defeat.

First things first. There’ll be time for the full tour later, but for now the essentials. Steve prods Bucky into the main bathroom and while the other man is occupied, raids the drawers in the guest room for clothing. As he expected, they’re filled with the kind of comfortable neutral clothes that people who spend a lot of their time getting blown up might well want to fall into of an evening; sweats, socks, underwear, t-shirts, hoodies and pyjamas, all in Steve’s size. Bucky’s scrubs were fresh on after that morning’s plumbing incident but they’re thin and Bucky looks freezing. His tremor is noticeably worse too and it’s a worrying flashback to the bad old days in the cabin when the shakes and confusion had been so bad that Bucky hadn’t even been able to piss on his own. He manages that by himself now at least, but Steve does have to help him peel off the scrubs pants and get into fresh sweatpants, although that’s partly because Bucky’s still clutching the chocolate nut protein bar that Bruce gave him like a lifeline.

Steve only considers having Bucky take off the scrubs top for a second before he thinks again, remembering all too clearly the pulse of red and orange pain in Bucky’s head and Stark’s voice; “this is your brain on cryogenics.” There’s no way he’s going to try taking the arm out of its sling and manoeuvring it for anything as complex as a garment of clothing, not now he’s seen how much even just breathing hurts. As a compromise he throws a soft zip-up jacket carefully around Bucky’s shoulders, pokes the right arm into the sleeve and then zips it closed over the prosthetic. Then he parks Bucky on the couch in the lounge and goes into the kitchen to fetch a bottle of water and to phone Dr Patel.

The doctor had been distinctly displeased earlier when Steve had removed his patient from medical observation without having consulted either his physician or psychiatric doctor first. He is even less impressed to learn said patient is now staying in the most restricted part of the tower that only Avengers have clearance to enter. The news that specialists are now working on repairing the prosthetic arm brings a brief glimmer of hope to the conversation before those good feelings are dashed when Steve also confesses to Dr Patel about the morning’s psychiatric episode in the bathroom which not only caused a significant amount of damage to the building but also contributed to the patient ripping out both IV ports and his NG tube.

Patel is in a consultation with another patient right now but he insists on sending up one of the nurses immediately to give Bucky his overdue meds, ensure that he survived his trip into Stark’s lair and that pulling out the tubes hasn’t caused any other damage. Steve apologises profusely for all the other misdemeanours and at last Sunil Patel grudgingly seems to forgive him and rings off to go and argue with JARVIS about getting security access to Steve’s floor for the nurses.

Dr Pedley, when Steve calls her next, goes for cold disappointment instead of Patel’s more direct ire. It’s highly disconcerting and Steve is reminded, just for a second, of Peggy. She makes Steve recount the entire incident that morning in the panic room and writes lots of notes. Like Patel she is pleased that Stark’s team have started work on the arm, and, even more fortunately, Dr Pedley at least thinks the relocation of their patient into Steve’s suite is a good thing. In theory.

_“It is important that he gets the chance to engage with a more normal living environment, if we are hoping for at least partial reintegration in the future,” she says down the phone. “And this is a good opportunity to provide that while also keeping him observed and secure. But this is going to be a massive commitment for you, Captain Rogers. It’s admirable that you are willing, but being James’ carer is going to be a full-time job for some significant time. I know people often don’t want to consider this, but he might be better off in an institution where he can be under full observation.”_

“No. Bucky stays with me,” Steve says, firmly. “I can handle it. Whatever happens, I’m here for him.”

 _“We may need to revisit this at a later time,”_ she warns. _“But for now this relocation needs to be the last major change in his life for some time. I understand you have been residing in DC? I’m afraid you won’t be able to move him back there again, at least not for some time – James has to be able to settle here while we work on his recovery. Routine is extremely important. He needs to know what to expect from every day, to know precisely where he is returning home to and with whom he needs to interact. Do you have enough space for James to have his own room?”_

“He could probably have his own floor if he wanted it,” Steve says. “But yes, I'm going to put him in the guest room across the hall from mine.”

 _“Good,”_ Pedley says. _“That’s also going to be very important; that he has his own space, somewhere that he can control access to. Go and get him settled now, and let me know what the nurse says. Before you go, though, there was something else I meant to speak to you about. Originally I came on board with this case when Pepper asked me to observe Sergeant Barnes and determine the probability for violent outbreaks, or at worst, total regression. I was also to consider any potential for a treatment plan and which other psychiatrists or field specialists I could recommend to work with James. But now I have had the chance to observe him and read about his history, all the things that were done to him...I don’t feel I can, in good conscience, just pass him on to someone else. His case is extremely complex. I retired three years ago, but I have put in a request to have my medical registration restored and, if you are willing, I would like to take on James as my patient full time.”_

“Yes,” says Steve, surprised but gratified. “Of course. I mean, I’m a little surprised; I had thought you didn’t want to go into the room with him...?”

 _“Well, no, at first I was just there to observe, and I didn’t want to complicate his environment by introducing myself if I wasn’t sure I could commit to being his doctor long term,”_ Pedley explains. _“Now I can set up an office here and we can meet in a stable, neutral space that he won’t associate with anything else. I think we will both find that helpful.”_

“Well, we’d be pleased to have any willing help,” Steve says.

 _“Well, I certainly am willing,”_ Pedley agrees. _“I’d like to schedule our first session as soon as possible. Also, Pepper is proposing a meeting tomorrow to talk about James’ longer term care and some other issues. I’ll let you know the time and location?”_

Steve agrees, although the latter comment gives him some trepidation. He hangs up and steps back out of the kitchen, not entirely surprised to find that Bucky has slid off the couch and is curled up on the floor. Steve had been kind of astonished earlier when Bucky had actually sat willingly in the chair in the lab. When given the choice Steve had only even seen the Soldier sit on the floor. Perhaps it was something to do with arm maintenance.

Right now he is curled up in the corner of the room against the side of the couch and the wall. Steve pushes the open water bottle over to him and eventually Bucky picks it up. Then they sit and wait in silence for half an hour while Steve tries not to panic until JARVIS announces that Evangeline Jackson is at the door. She has with her a medical kit the size of a suitcase, several other large bags and a smile like sunshine. Steve hovers a little anxiously nearby while she performs her examination just in case Bucky is still freaked out from the lab and starts attacking, but the man endures the penlight and prodding and her soothing words with more silence. He is still tracking her movements with his eyes though, so he isn’t completely disassociated, just exhausted and kind of spaced out. Steve can’t tell if that’s a good sign or not.

Evangeline finally decides that physically he’s no worse off than before and gives Bucky his meds, a bewildering array of tablets that he swallows without comment. Then she unpacks the rest of the bags she brought with her to reveal a little treasure trove of items that comprise Bucky’s worldly possessions that were left behind in the basement that morning; the blue blanket, the books, crayons and a pack of smokes. While Bucky is huddled into his blanket, staring at the items, the nurse leads Steve into the kitchen with the last bag. The contents are three large cylinders containing a two month’s supply of the Stark Industries powdered famine formula that Stark’s courier had been meant to deliver to the cabin the day it blew up. Dr Patel had been planning on weaning Bucky off the NG tube soon anyway, so they have decided it was an opportune moment to try out the liquid nutrient diet and see if Bucky can stomach it. Evangeline shows Steve how to prepare the mix into a thick milkshake-like slurry that is a vaguely offensive pink in colour. Bucky will need to drink 500ml every two hours during the day if they are going to get him healthy again. As the sickness is partly a psychological issue, perhaps a result of stress (Patel had called it psychosomatic), there’s a probability the food paste still might give Bucky belly ache or make him sick. To that end, she’s also provided a bottle of anti-emetics and a stack of disposable vomit bowls.

Evangeline heads off soon after, leaving instructions that Steve is to call the medical team the moment he has any concerns and, if everything goes well tonight, he is to bring Bucky down to the med bay first thing tomorrow and at least once every day afterwards to get him checked over and given his medications. Then Steve is alone with Bucky once again and, once again, he feels panic about to overwhelm him. Bucky is here, yes; impossibly, unbelievably here. But he’s so broken. Steve’s heard people say that Captain America arrived in the future twice the man he had been before. That could be debated, of course, but it’s true that he’s more or less whole. But Bucky...he’s fractured. It’s as if only a few fragments of him made the journey through those decades intact and the rest was shaken loose and left behind somewhere, scattered across time like shreds of cloth in a storm. He’s broken and Steve can’t fix him, doesn’t even know where to start, can’t....

Stop. First things first. If you’re overwhelmed, withdraw and regroup. Get to a position of safety. Find shelter. Dig in. Food. Rest. Check your resources over and start again. Basic army training. The order of those things doesn’t matter so Steve picks food first. He mixes up a cup of the formula that Evangeline left and slides it across the floor to Bucky. It takes a lot of coaxing but eventually Bucky picks up the cup and drinks the contents down in four long swallows. He doesn’t say anything or make a sound but Steve can tell by the set of his jaw that he hates the taste. No choice about that, and he isn’t actually crying so Steve counts it as a win. 

Next: safety. Steve leads Bucky around the apartment, showing him the two exits, one to the stairwell and one to the corridor with the elevator, the bank of bulletproof windows of thermoplastic laminate glass, the fixed construction of the ceiling and floor panels that notably lack any convenient crawl space or helpfully man-sized ventilation ducts, the shockproof walls. He explains how JARVIS monitors the biosigns on each floor to determine that everyone is safe and well and to check for intruders at all times. Bucky is staring down at the floor whenever Steve looks in his direction, but once or twice Steve catches his gaze darting shrewdly about and Steve is confident he is listening. Next is resources, so he shows Bucky the room and bathroom that will be his, points out the bed, the cupboards, the bookcase. Steve brings in Bucky’s few possessions and lines them up on a side table. Then he shows Bucky the drawers of clothes and the blankets that are his now, and demonstrates that the door to the hall can be closed whenever he wants.

Rest is the last thing on the list; it might only be 1700 but Bucky is under a lot of physical and mental stress and he looks exhausted. A nap won’t hurt. Steve turns the transparency of the windows down low to make the room cosier and then he has to order Bucky to lie down on the bed. Bucky obeys, lying flat on his back like a cadaver awaiting autopsy. Steve unfolds the blue blanket and gently drapes it over Bucky’s still body.

“Get some rest, Buck,” he says from the doorway, looking back. Bucky’s eyes glint at him from the dark. “I’m glad you’re home.”

He leaves Bucky’s door open a crack behind him when he leaves.

Bucky doesn’t come out of his room all evening. Steve watches something he pays no attention to on the TV, eats an unidentifiable meal and reads a news article about the fall of SHIELD that he doesn’t remember at all as soon as he puts his phone down. He finds himself standing outside Bucky’s door over and over, listening for any sound. He thinks he can hear Bucky breathing and occasionally there is a shuffle of cloth but nothing more. He must be asleep.

Steve forces himself to wait until 8pm before he calls Sam, just so that he can feel like he made it through a full 24 hours without him. They don’t talk for long – Steve is tired and Sam is on his way out somewhere – but it's long enough for Steve to summarise everything that’s happened over the last day. Sam listens carefully and Steve feels some of the anxiety bleed away just for knowing his friend is listening. There haven’t been many people in his life who could make him feel like that. Nat, for one. Peggy. Bucky, once upon a time. Sam takes it all in and then offers him two pieces of advice. One: Steve should sleep now, while he can. If Bucky doesn’t need him at the present time, he should make the most of it and go to bed, regardless of how early it is. Banking some rest will be a better use of his time than sitting around fretting. And two: Steve should be very, very careful. Bucky has spent the last seven decades in confinement after confinement and it’s just days since he broke free of the most recent HYDRA orders to kill Steve. He’s unrestrained, is lacking the orders and structure he’s familiar with, has access to an array of improvised weapons and he hasn’t yet been given any psychological treatment that will provide him with some coping mechanisms. If Barnes has a flashback or a memory or a psychotic break, Steve could be in serious trouble. At the very least Steve needs to have JARVIS monitoring the apartment at all times, the rest of the Avengers on high alert, and first thing tomorrow he has to sweep the place for anything that could be used as a weapon.

Steve accepts the first piece of advice more gracefully than the second, and as soon as he’s said goodbye to Sam, he does decide to head to bed. He pauses outside Bucky’s door again once more before turning in but the room beyond is silent. Bucky has already missed his scheduled 8pm liquid meal but Steve tiptoes away, deciding Bucky needs sleep more urgently right now. The next meal on Patel’s schedule is timetabled for midnight and he will let Bucky sleep till then.

Bad decision. A very bad decision, as it turns out.

The alarm he’d set on his phone drags Steve out of an uneasy half-sleep of restless dreams just before midnight. He stumbles into the kitchen, mixes a batch of Bucky’s formula and heads towards the spare room, all before his mind is really awake. He pauses for a second at the door and then decides to knock. Dr Pedley said Bucky needed to feel like this was his space, after all.

“Bucky? It’s Steve. Can I come in?”

There’s no answer or even a rustle of cloth from inside to suggest that Bucky has woken up. Steve knocks again, louder.

“Bucky? It’s time for something to eat, pal.”

Still nothing. A little anxious, Steve gives up on polite.

“I’m coming in, okay? Don’t be startled.”

As he pushes the door open, the light from the hallway falls across Bucky’s bed. He’s curled up on his side and, at first, Steve thinks he’s sleeping. Then he sees the dull half-opened eyes, the body shaking with minute shivers, and the glistening of something dark and wet across the bed sheets.

“Bucky!”

Alarmed, Steve throws on the light and dashes across the room, but the smell finally registers when he’s halfway to the bed. The liquid isn’t blood or urine as he’d first feared but thick, pink vomit, wet and viscous, sticking to the sheets and pillowcase and Bucky’s skin. Worse, the stuff’s cold. Bucky’s been lying here in his own sick for hours.

“Bucky! Buck, are you okay? It’s alright, it’s gonna be alright...”

Steve crouches at the edge of the bed, trying to catch Bucky’s eyes. They’re half open and don’t track Steve’s movement. Bucky’s face is blotchy and tear tracks have washed clean trails through the cold sick on his cheek. He looks terrified and exhausted and miserable and that’s all of it Steve’s fault because he didn’t check on him. Worse - Steve had ordered him to lie down and so Bucky did. Steve knows Bucky no longer has the autonomy to act on his own, would be incapable in this strange place of getting up, seeing to his own needs. Steve had left him here on his own, in the dark, for hours, and Bucky had been too scared or too incapable of even getting up to reach a vomit bowl when he felt sick.

Forcing aside the miasma of guilt and horror spiralling round in his mind like a whirlpool, Steve manages, somehow, to get Bucky to sit up and coax him out of bed and into the bathroom. He sets about stripping off Bucky’s soiled clothes, washing the cold, congealed puke off his friend’s skin and out of his hair. Bucky cries and shivers, mute and powerless, but as Steve touches the back of his neck with the washcloth, Bucky twitches and his expression changes. He lurches forwards off the edge of the tub, swinging out with the left arm. Steve, balanced on his toes, throws himself to the side and the fist misses him, crashing instead through the shower door. Safety glass rains down on them and the shock of the crash and skitter of glass cubes across the tiles has Bucky freezing up, ducking his head under his arms like he’s under fire.

They both freeze. The room is silent.

Steve doesn’t know what to do. He can’t touch Bucky again in case it prompts more violence, can’t lead him out across the glass-covered tiles in his bare feet but doesn’t dare leave him here alone while he fetches a broom. The tears and the vomit and the violence; it’s exactly like when they were back in the cabin, except this time there’s no Sam to be the voice of calm and reason. Steve is on his own. He’s on his own and this is all his fault.

By the time Steve has laid a walkway of towels over the glass, hauled a now benign Bucky out of the room and deposited him back into the corner of the lounge, hunched into a clean blanket and with wet hair hanging across his eyes like weeds, the endless litany of this is my fault is crawling around in Steve’s brain like a hoard of red ants, biting and stinging.

Bucky needs somewhere to sleep. Steve returns to Bucky's room and sees the vomit on the sheets and blankets and Bucky’s filthy clothes and the glass everywhere and before Steve knows what he’s doing his phone is in his hand and Sam’s voice is in his ear.

_“Steve? It’s the middle of the night, man. What’s going on?”_

“I can’t do this.” Steve blurts out. “I can’t. He’s...” and then before he knows it he’s sitting down on the floor by the bed, soiled sheets bundled up against his chest and feeling his throat closing up, lungs tight and heavy, like the serum and the decades both have been stripped away and he’s fourteen-years-old and pneumonia is slowly killing him all over again. His hands tingle; the world is spinning, too bright, too giddy and all he can sense for some time is the hard metal of the phone in his hand and the reassuring hum of Sam’s voice in his ear.

_“...out for five, four, three...in again, through your nose, Steve...you’re doing great, man...three, four, five...”_

“I’m okay,” Steve croaks as soon as awareness starts to return. “I’m here, I’m okay.”

 _“Feeling better?”_ Sam asks, cautiously.

“Yeah. I’m sorry-” Steve starts but Sam cuts him off.

_“I don’t want to hear an apology, Steve. You’ve done nothing wrong, you hear me? Now, can you tell me what’s happened? Are you safe? Is either of you hurt?”_

“No, nothing like that,” Steve says. “Bucky took a swing at me and broke the shower screen is all. He was sick earlier, really, it’s nothing. Nothing we haven’t seen before. I can handle this, I should be able to handle this, it’s just...”

_“Steve, slow down. Breathe. There’s nothing wrong with feeling the way you do. None of us have ever been in a situation remotely similar to yours, and feeling overwhelmed...that’s totally understandable. Even if you’d handled this exact scenario a hundred times before, the fact that you can’t face it today – that’s okay. If you need help, you can and should ask for it. I’m glad you called.”_

“It’s my fault,” Steve says, hollow. “I ordered him to lie down and he couldn’t even get out of bed to throw up.”

_“Steve, I am not gonna go through this again with you, because you know this is not your fault. You know that. This is HYDRA’s fault, and Zola and Pierce. You’re doing everything you can. Where is Winter now? Is he still upset?”_

“I put him in the lounge because his room’s still a state.” Steve says, getting unsteadily to his feet and peering through the door. Bucky hasn’t moved from his corner, face pressed into his arms. “He seems quiet now.”

_“Did either of you sleep?”_

“Not...not much.”

 _“Then see if you can get some more rest, before morning,”_ Sam advices. _“Even super soldiers gotta sleep at least once a decade, right? Clean-up can wait._

“Yeah, I guess,” says Steve. “But I haven’t given him his meal. He missed one already in the evening and...”

_“Steve. I think you’re going to have to leave that for now. I know his nutrition is really important but so is sleep. If Winter is comfortable where he is then leave him alone ‘till the morning. Being forced to eat again is just going to stress him out and at least if he’s quiet at the moment he’s resting.”_

“Okay,” Steve agrees, just glad to be given some instructions to follow. He’s too exhausted and drained and heartsick to think. “Okay. Thanks, Sam.”

_“All right. I can be back in NYC by midday tomorrow.”_

“You said you were going to stay in DC for a week.”

 _“Yeah, well, Captain America needs my help,”_ Sam says, and Steve can hear him smiling a little at the reference.

“I do,” Steve says. “I’m...this is really hard, Sam. But me, Bucky...we’ll find a way to cope. You deserve your break from all this too; you took off for a good reason. Don’t give me something else to feel guilty about.”

Sam hesitates for a moment and then says: _“All right. I’ll stay in DC for the weekend, at least. But you know you can call, any time.”_

“Yeah,” says Steve, wondering again just what he did right in his life to deserve Sam Wilson, to deserve Bucky back, to deserve Bruce and Clint and even Tony. “I will. Thanks, Sam.”

_“You’re welcome, man. Now go drink a glass of water and go to sleep.”_

Sam rings off, and Steve does as he was ordered, with the addition that he puts an uncapped bottle of water next to Bucky too in the hope he’ll drink it if he comes round. There’s no way Steve is going to leave Bucky here alone though, so he lays down on the couch opposite Bucky’s corner, closes his eyes and tries to sleep.

To his surprise, he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay, my dudes. 2020 is a shitshow. Here's two chapters to make up for it.  
> Big love.


	8. Sam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta read by [theAsh0](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theAsh0/pseuds/theAsh0).

Sam lies awake the morning after the phone call where he had spent twenty minutes talking Steve down from a panic attack, and wonders, not for the first time, if he’s making the right decision. 

Sam had managed to put Steve and Barnes out of his head for most of the previous day. He’d taken the late train back to DC on Wednesday after they’d successfully found a way of getting Steve back into Winter’s sight without the onset of imminent murder, and things had seemed to be settling down at last. Admittedly Sam had kind of expected Barnes to stay locked in the basement panic room, secure and under observation, not be camped out in the guest room of Steve’s apartment less than 24 hours later. He didn’t even want to imagine what kind of harebrained scheme Stark must have come up with for Steve to think that was a good move. Or maybe not. Maybe the harebrained scheme was  _ Steve’s _ , some sort of well-meaning but hamfisted attempt at reintegrating his old pal. It’s making Sam itch, knowing that Steve is clearly putting himself in harm’s way again. Barnes might be a victim of some pretty terrible abuse, but just going into a room with him right now was like swimming with sharks  _ without _ the shark cage. Sam couldn’t be more conscious that Steve is in New York right now, alone, with an emotionally unbalanced, highly trained but psychologically disturbed multiple murderer that Steve seems incapable of seeing as anything other than a friend in need. Yes, Barnes is a friend, and yes, he’s in need, but what he’s in need of is a cartload of drugs and probably institutionalisation. 

So all Sam has to do is get his wings, visit his family, talk to work, sort out his life, take enough of a break to reset his headspace,  _ and  _ get back to New York before Steve gets his dumb ass killed. Easy, right?

The wings were the easiest part – well, wing, really. The one the Winter Soldier ripped off was probably lying at the bottom of the Potomac under several thousand tons of helicarrier parts. They’re saying the clean up and salvage could take up to ten months. The other wing, the one Sam had jettisoned when he was falling out of the sky had been collected up by one of Hill’s people during the clear-up and she’d returned it to Sam before they’d left DC, along with the harness, chute and rig that Sam had been forced to abandon on a lower roof after he was unwillingly grounded. The rig is pretty trashed and he really has no idea how Stark is going to do anything with it, but he still has the folder with the original EXO-7 files and design specs. He hopes that’s enough. The guy’s a genius, right? That has to be enough. 

Family next, or work? Usually there’d be no question, but Maria Hill had assured him when he’d first arrived at the tower that extra security had already been put in place on his mom and Tessa. Apparently it wasn’t considered beyond HYDRA to start attacking family members of the Avengers and SHIELD just to get revenge for the failure of their uprising. Sam didn’t point out that he wasn't actually a member of either, because if a super secret intelligence agency were willing to use their resources to keep his family safe, who was he to argue? Mom had accepted their suggested alteration of name and relocation willingly – Hill had set her up in this unbelievable house in Kalorama Heights - but Sam knew it wouldn’t last. Within six months his mom’d be right back to her old church, her old friends, same as always. She was too stubborn. Tessa was worse; she’d refused all attempts by both Sam and Maria Hill to persuade her to move or change her habits or identity in any way. Her family, she’d told Sam on the phone, would not be uprooted, forced to change or to live their lives in any other way than how they wanted too because a bunch of facist, terrorist assholes hadn’t yet realised that they were extinct. Besides, the kids at work needed her. If these bad guys really were that dangerous then Sam had better just get on with helping Captain America catch them. Sam was not in the slightest bit surprised by her response. Any HYDRA agent trying to take on Tessa would be earning their overtime. His sister was made out of tough stuff; you had to be to work at a juvenile detention centre for ten years. Still, after Sam had argued with her for two solid hours, she and Suzanna had grudgingly agreed to 24 hour security monitoring and that at least made Sam feel slightly better.

So he bites the bullet and goes into work. They’re surprised to see him; after all, he’d called in on the 21st as soon as he realised how serious he was about  _ “there’s no better reason to get back in,” _ and asked for a few personal days. Then, when the fires from the helicarriers were still burning and Steve was lying in the hospital begging Nat to dig up everything she could on the Winter Soldier, he’d seen the turn of the tide and upgraded the few days into a full three month leave of absence. Now though, with everything that’s going on, maybe it’s time for something more permanent. He’d promised to help Steve find Bucky, whatever it took. He’d been expecting a long search, one beginning with months of research, time enough for him to figure out what  _ getting back in _ really meant. Not to be dropped right into the middle of everything. They have Barnes back and in a fraction of the time they’d all thought, though it hadn’t been the homecoming any of them would have hoped for. It’s strange to think how different things might have been if Barnes had been less fucked up, more able to shake off his conditioning. If he’d decided to go to ground instead of following his mission, he might have stayed on the run for years. They might never have found him. 

But they do have him back, physically at any rate, though his mind is something else entirely. Now there’s more to be done than ever. Steve still needs Sam’s help, that much is clear; there are remnants of HYDRA everywhere and no SHIELD to coordinate clearing out the rot. Plus Tony Stark had promised Sam his wings back. Then there’s the actual real life Avengers; Nat and Clint and Dr Banner, and Maria Hill too, and Pepper Potts had said  _ “make yourself at home for as long as you like _ ”, and he’s pretty sure he intends to. Sam feels like he’s teetering on the brink of something, but whether that drop is going to be a rollercoaster or a cliff edge he can’t tell. 

He has no idea what the future holds. He can only stare into Steve Rogers’ bright halo and take a leap of faith.

Sam goes to check out his Mom’s new place next, and it’s as he’s leaving, stuffed to the gills with amazing pie and unwelcome advice that his phone buzzes. It’s a text from Steve. Sam’s been checking in pretty regularly throughout the day, what he thinks is justifiable caution but everything seems to be going okay. Steve reported that there hadn’t been any more incidents overnight and he thinks Bucky slept a little. A disgruntled text at 0800 had given only the broadest brushstrokes of what Sam is sure is a pile of shit Stark is shoveling at Steve for destroying yet another bathroom. By 08.55 they’re at Bucky’s medical checkup and Dr Patel is, as usual, unhappy with everything from Bucky’s weight to his pain levels. At 1100 Sam learns that Dr Pedley is taking over Bucky’s psychological care and had scheduled their first session for the following morning – that at least is good news. There’s nothing yet from the Banner/Stark think tank about the arm.

This text, though, isn’t a standard check in.

STEVE: Have you got a few minutes spare? Can I ask for your advice with something? 

SAM: You know you don’t have to ask.

STEVE: There’s a lawyer coming. They want to talk about B.

SAM: What about?

STEVE: He’s SI, one of Pepper’s. I don't know what it’s about. 

SAM: Sure. When?

Steve: 1400. I’ll get JARVIS to call you. Thanks.

Sam checks his watch. It’s 1330. He said he’d pick up Blake and Jamie from school at 1630, which was only fair as he’d let Neo-Nazis blow up their mom’s car. Without knowing what this mysterious lawyer’s visit was about he has no idea how long this could go on, but hopefully there’ll be time. But he grabs a coffee on the way back to his apartment and has time to get comfortable before his tablet chimes with an incoming call. Steve’s face, when it pops up on the screen, looks terrible. The effects of the back-to-back sleepless nights, stress and barely healed injuries are instantly apparent. 

“Jesus,” Sam says. “Rough night, huh?”

_ “You could say,”  _ Steve answers, with barely a trace of a smile.  _ “We made it through.” _

“Uh huh,” says Sam, unconvinced. He glances around the conference room he can see behind Steve’s shoulder. Only Dr Pedley is there, clutching what’s probably a soy latte and flicking through a notebook. “Where’s Winter?”

_ “He’s in the apartment; Clint and JARVIS are watching him,”  _ Steve says.  _ “Clint came and hung out with us yesterday morning for a bit, before Stark showed up. I thought maybe he could try teaching Bucky some sign language, for when he’s non-verbal or when he gets, you know, stuck in Russian.” _

“That’s a really good idea,” says Sam, encouraged as much by Steve’s willingness to leave Bucky alone for a few hours as he is by the prospect of an easier and less fraught method of communication. 

From across the room Dr Pedley nods.  _ “We have to be careful not to overload him with new concepts right now, but one or two signs shouldn’t hurt. It might give him something to focus on.” _

On the screen, Sam sees the door behind Steve open and Pepper Potts and Maria Hill enter the room. With them is a very tall, skinny man with a crumpled suit, wire glasses and a receding hairline. The guy deposits an armload of paperwork on the table before turning to shake everyone’s hands. Pepper introduces him as Samir Boulos, a Stark Industries lawyer. Boulos greets everyone and then glances up at the camera. Sam can tell from the angle they’re looking at that JARVIS has projected the vid feed up on a wall screen.

“Hi,” says Sam, giving a little wave. “I’d shake but...”

_ “This is Sam Wilson,”  _ Steve introduces him to the room.  _ “He’s in DC right now, but he’s a friend of mine and Bucky’s, and I’d like him to be a part of this conversation.” _

Everyone agrees and takes a seat. Pepper begins with a quick summary, and it's immediately clear that everyone in the room is aware of who Bucky Barnes is, the fact that he’s alive and in New York, and knows something of what has happened to him over the last 70 years.

It puts Sam on edge. He might be new to this superspy game but there are a lot of people now who know Bucky is here: Pedley, Boulos, the medical trio of Dr Patel and the two nurses, the security guards, and not forgetting the former SHIELD team that brought them in. And Sam knows just as well as Steve that whatever is left of HYDRA is highly likely to be searching for the Winter Soldier, either to claim the asset for their own or to wipe him out for good. The smaller they can keep the group that know this secret, the better the chances are of it staying secret. Steve doesn’t make any objection though, and Sam sees him gesture to the papers instead.  _ “So what’s all this?”  _ he asks.

_ “I asked everyone to meet today,”  _ Pepper continues. _ “I thought it was time we all got together to decide where we go from here, and what’s best for James. Samir and I did some digging,” _ she says.  _ “And unlike you Steve, who, mostly due to Howard Stark’s involvement, was only ever legally Missing in Action, James Barnes was quietly declared dead in 1951.” _

She waves a hand, and Sam sees a projected image flicker into life. It shows a court notification. At first he can’t read it, but Pepper expands the image and his eyes jump straight to the line that reads:  
  
_James Buchanan Barnes, Sergeant. Killed In Action - Body Not Recovered. Presumed date of death 23rd January 1945._

“Wasn’t that a bit fast?” says Sam. “The military is normally pretty reluctant to declare service personnel KIA without evidence.”

_ “It is,”  _ agrees Boulos. He has a gentle lilting accent, maybe Iranian. _ “I suspect that in this case it reflects HYDRA’s growing influence within the Strategic Scientific Reserve at that time. It would not have been in their interest for anyone to be searching too hard for what happened to Sergeant Barnes.” _

_ “So, he was declared KIA,”  _ says Steve. _ “Okay, so how do we fix that?” _

_ “We don’t,”  _ Boulos says _. “At the moment, he does not exist. For now, that may be fortuitous if it limits too much attention falling on him. Additionally it means that James Barnes cannot be associated with the Winter Soldier who was only active after his death. Of course, it makes things a little more complicated for your friend in the long run; he has no identity, no social security. It will be very difficult for him to find work in the future, or get legal representation, or healthcare, for instance. But much of this is nothing to be concerned with for now. It is very possible to legally bring people back from the dead, and at the least he will be owed significant back pay from the military if we can prove his identity and disclaim any accusations of defection or treachery. But there will be a lot of work to do first. We will at the least have to protect him from any potential criminal charges brought against him for the actions of the Winter Soldier, which may be filed from numerous other countries from what I understand.” _

Steve’s face is a featureless mask, but Sam knows him well enough by now to know he’s shaken. But he must have considered this, the threat of legal reprisal. Steve can be painfully naive when he wants to be, and he certainly has a blindspot the size of a Chitauri leviathan when it comes to Bucky Barnes but he’s also smart, the smartest person in any room that doesn’t have Stark or Banner in it. Steve knew there would be a fair chance that tugging on this thread, of bringing Bucky back in from the cold was going to mean scrutiny, accusations, perhaps even some sort of trial. But the problem is Bucky’s status as a victim is so blindingly clear in Steve’s eyes that it hasn’t occurred to him that other people might really think him guilty. Sam is suddenly sure that the threat of Bucky really being held accountable, of being punished or even put to death, for the Winter Soldier’s actions hasn’t truly crossed Steve’s mind before now.

It had crossed Sam’s though, and it’s clear it had also occurred to everyone else in the room who isn’t called Steve. Two dozen assassinations don’t just go away. Bucky may have been through hell and back on his way to the 21st century, but that’s nothing on the ocean of shit waiting for him and Steve if someone decides to prosecute.

“ _ Let’s shelve that for now,” _ says Maria Hill, who has also been watching Steve’s expression.  _ “Mr Boulos and Pepper are going to work on the legal side of things to make sure Sergeant Barnes is as protected as possible when we do have his KIA status revoked, or in case the fact that he is alive is revealed by a third party, perhaps during the court proceedings against the HYDRA agents who survived the battle. Part of that is going to mean ensuring we do everything as correctly as possible from this point on. We need a paper trail, accountability. Do you agree?” _

Sam nods along with Steve. It’s a difficult line to walk. Keeping Bucky anonymous enough that his presence here can be denied if necessary, but record enough about him that should the records be seized later, everything can be seen to be by the book. Steve’s terrible poker face is relaxing, just a little. Sam knows Steve doesn’t fully trust Hill yet and a level of transparency can only help reassure him that Bucky isn’t going to be snatched away in the night by the next faceless security agency.

“Sounds reasonable,” says Sam, cautiously. “How are you going to keep things under wraps though, in case of security breaches?”

_ “We can anonymise James’ medical and security records to a certain extent,” _ says the lawyer,  _ “By referring to him by an initial or a substitute name. It’s something commonly done when dealing with cases regarding minors.” _

_ “That brings me rather neatly onto my next point,”  _ Dr Pedley adds. _ “Something else we need to decide while everyone is here, and that is James’ future medical care and how decisions are going to be made.” _

Boulos shuffles a stack of papers and peers over at Steve. _ “Captain Rogers, James had two people listed as next of kin at the time he was declared dead. You, and one Rebecca Barnes.” _

“Christ, tell me he wasn’t married,” mutters Sam. He’s pretty sure Steve, or at the very least the gallery in the Smithsonian would have mentioned a marriage somewhere down the line, but Sam’s mind is already playing out a horrible slideshow of an unsuspecting wife in a suburban kitchen picking up the phone or opening some unprepossessing envelope and reading the words that take her bride to widow in the space of a heartbeat. She would have lived for seventy years with that lie.

_ “Becca,”  _ says Steve, and adds.  _ “Bucky’s sister. She died in ’93.” _

“That’s tough, man,” says Sam, seeing once again on Steve’s face how close the past was for him. He went into the ice, and decades flashed by in a heartbeat. He opened his eyes and all of them were dead. “There’s no-one left at all?”

_ “Well, his immediate family are all gone. But before he came back I learned that he had two nieces and a nephew still living, as well as five grand nieces and one great-grand nephew.” _

“Local studies library?”

_ “Peggy, actually,”  _ says Steve, with a smile.  _ “SHIELD kept tabs on them all on Bucky’s behalf. Also one of the grand nieces runs the Wikipedia page on him.” _

_ “How interesting,”  _ Pedley says.  _ “They may not want to be involved of course, but if they do, family can be important in reintegrating people into society. But for the purposes of this discussion, Steve, you are still willing to act as James’ next of kin?” _

Steve nods.  _ “Of course.” _

_ “The reason this has come up as an issue,”  _ the lawyer says, _ “is that up to now, all of the medical treatments undertaken for Sergeant Barnes have been the minimum needed to preserve his life. Now we have reached the point where we are discussing options for surgeries and drug regimes, all with their inherent risks and long term effects, and we need to determine who has the legal right to make those choices.” _

_ “You’re talking about capacity?”  _ asks Pepper. _ “Power of attorney?” _

Dr Pedley and Boulos both nod _. “In my professional opinion,”  _ says Pedley, looking up to Sam and Steve from her notes.  _ “It is quite clear that at this point in time, James is unable to make decisions in his own interest when it comes to personal and medical care. Declaring a person mentally incompetent is usually a lengthy process-” _

_ “...even when that person is not legally dead,”  _ adds Samir Boulos. __

_ “Exactly. This is far from a normal situation. But what I can do, for now, is state from my observations that Sergeant Barnes has been judged to lack capacity at this time.” _

_ “And then what?”  _ asks Steve. He’s twitching every time someone says the phrase ‘lacks capacity’ but he’s still listening.

_ “Then, usually, you would submit Dr Pedley’s evaluation to the court, attend a hearing, file for guardianship, et cetera. But again, that is not going to apply in this instance due to the party in question being legally deceased. I will instead make a legal record that Captain Rogers, as next of kin, is acting as guardian for Sergeant Barnes’ person and managing his estate. It is unconventional, but I do not think there are any conventions for these circumstances.” _

“His estate?” Sam snorts a laugh. “The guy’s entire worldly possessions currently consist of two kids books, a jacket he stole off Steve and a packet of crayons.”

_ “Nevertheless,” _ says Boulos, a little sternly, and then just looks at Steve. 

_ “Can it be revoked?” _ Steve asks Pedley.  _ “The, ah, declaration. Mental incompetency. When he is better.” _

_ “Yes, of course,” _ says Pedley.  _ “And there are other more temporary options which we can talk about later such as a mental health power of attorney if such things become relevant.” _

_ “Okay then,”  _ says Steve, glancing at Sam, who smiles.  _ “All right. I’ll do it.” _

They have Steve sign a bunch of papers, and then Dr Pedley and Boulos sign their sections, and Pepper and Maria have to sign another set as witnesses. Boulos takes all the papers back and shuffles them together into a folder. 

_ “Very well,” _ he says,  _ “I’ll let you all get on with your days. I’ll let Ms Potts know if I find anything else which might be of use to us in this case, and Dr Pedley will keep me informed of any other changes and any decisions you make. Good luck.” _

_ “I’ll come with you, Samir,” _ says Pepper _. “Good to see you looking better, Steve.” _

_ “Hey, do you know if Tony is making any progress with the arm?”  _ Steve asks, hopefully, before she can disappear. “ _ Bruce seemed to think there was some hold up.” _

_ “Well they have been speaking to a specialist in England,”  _ Pepper says.  _ “He’s been helping. But beyond that...”  _ she shrugs elegantly, and a little helplessly _. “You know Tony. He always does work to his own schedule.” _

Steve exchanges a few more words with Hill about the HYDRA files, clearing HYDRA bases and something called The Fridge. She snaps Sam a smile, and then she too is gone.

“You all right?” Sam asks Steve when he’s the last one left in the room. 

Steve runs a hand over his face.  _ “Yeah,” he says. “I’m okay. Just tired, more than anything. Gotta go back and rescue Clint though. Don’t want to leave them too long in case Bucky has some kind of...” _

“Episode?”

_ “Is that what I should call them? Yeah, one of those, anyway.” _

“What made you think of sign language anyway?” Sam is still intrigued by that. It had been clear back at the cabin that speech was a major issue for Winter, and that’s the sort of problem Sam has seen linger on for years in vets, long after some of their other issues have been helped. 

_ “During the attack on the car,” _ Steve explains.  _ “I could see out a little while Bucky was talking to the STRIKE team and I’m sure he gave me a sign to take cover just before they tried to blow up the car. One of the old hand signals.” _

“Yeah, I guess that’s possible. You use those a lot in the war?”

“Steve nods.  _ “All the time. Dr Pedley is right; I know teaching him something new right now seems counter-intuitive given everything else we’re throwing at him. But I can’t bear it when he’s trying to talk and can’t get the words out. I have to know what he’s trying to say.” _

“So how does Hawkeye fit in?”

_ “He’s almost completely deaf,” _ Steve explains. “ _ He wears these miniscule hearing aids in the field and reads lips like a witch. But he uses sign language as well and--” _

“Wait,” Sam interrupts. “Steve, are you sure Barton’s is okay with you telling me this? It’s kind of personal and I’m pretty much a stranger.”

For the first time in a while, Steve actually grins. “ _ It’s Clint. No-one’s a stranger. It’s okay, Sam, I know he wouldn’t mind,” _ he says, and then the smile disappears and he looks away.  _ “But I think Clint has some sympathy for what it’s like to feel like a hostage in your own head. Of what it’s like being made to do things you never usually would.” _

“Well, the fact that he’s willing to stay in the apartment on his own with the Winter Soldier says a lot,” says Sam. “I’m impressed.”

_ “Yeah. Well, don’t forget he’s the one that brought Natasha over to our side back in the day. He’s got skills.” _ And Steve smiles again. Twice, in one conversation. Things really are improving.

Then Steve’s phone buzzes and he glances at it. He groans.

_ “Definitely jinxed that one.” _

“Problems?”

_ “Potentially. Sam, I got to run.” _

“On your left?” Says Sam with a sympathetic smile.

_ “Always. Catch you later, buddy.” _

The call finishes with a beep. 

Sam hopes for the best, then puts Steve and Bucky out of his mind. It’s time to collect the kids. He sets off for the elementary school and bang on time his niece and nephew come haring down the school steps at such a speed that their combined hugs knock him back and almost into the side of a dark SUV parked amidst all the mini-vans at the foot of the steps. The pair of Hill’s agents inside who are supposed to be on security detail stand out like a sore thumb. Sam ignores them. 

Neither of the kids could care less that they have to walk home because Uncle Sam broke Mommy Tessa’s car and they are bursting to tell him every detail of their days. Jamie has been made a librarian’s assistant, something she is beyond proud of, plus she has a tooth coming through. Blake’s Debating Team just won an award in a regional heat. The black SUV tails them home at a discrete distance.

“What kind of elementary school has a debate team?” Sam asks Tessa later that evening after Sam has spent five hours being the favourite uncle, having his plaster cast decorated, eating a delicious pot roast, admiring paintings and awards and Jamie’s ant farm, and Suzanna has finally taken the kids off to bed. “Seriously. He’s nine.”

Tessa tips her wine glass and smiles. “Actually, he came up with the idea himself. He saw online that the middle school has a team and he decided it was important that kids knew how to make their voices heard, no matter how young they are.”

“That’s amazing. At that age I still thought transformers toys were the height of mental stimulation.”

“Not much has changed then, baby bro.”

Sam’s too warm and comfortable to give her the finger. He settles for honesty instead; it’s easier than moving. 

“He’s a great kid. They both are. You should be proud.”

Tessa quirks an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me what to do, buddy.”

“True, ‘cause I know the fastest way for you to refuse to do something is for it to be my idea.”

“Exactly, and that would mean I couldn’t be proud of my own kids. So can it.”

They sit in comfortable silence. Upstairs, they can hear the sound of Jamie trying to sing  _ Let It Go  _ with a mouth full of toothpaste. Suzanna is helping Blake look for a missing schoolbook; the soft lilt of her accent mixes with his voice to add to the homely sounds floating down to them from above. 

This is too nice of a moment to mess up, but Sam knows he’s going to have to tell her. There’s no time like the present. 

“Tess. I’m thinking of leaving DC.”

She stares at him. Sits back, suddenly.

“You’re going back in. Aren’t you.”

“No, not like that...”

“Don’t bullshit me, Sam Wilson, I can see it in your face.”

“I’m not re-enlisting, I swear to you. But something’s come up. An opportunity, an obligation...I don’t know. But if I don’t do something now it’s gonna be too late.”

Tessa puts down her glass. “This is all about that Captain America fighting terrorists thing, isn’t it? Those planes, or whatever they were, that crashed in the river. It was some super secret black ops agency gone rogue is what they’re saying. Neo-Nazis trying to take over the world. A couple of defecting spies brought them down from the inside. I read the news, Sam, but feel free to take over with your dazzling explanation at any time.”

“There may have been a couple of former soldiers along with those spies.”

“So. A group of international terrorists were brought down by Captain America, two spies...and you?”

“There were three spies, actually. Though one of them was legally dead at the time.”

“What the actual  _ shit _ , Sam? Twenty people died!”

“Twenty-three,” Sam corrects her, soberly. “I know. It was pretty bad. But believe me, it could have been a whole lot worse. So much worse that I don’t even want you to know. But I had the chance to make a difference. Someone needed me and I wasn’t going to just walk away.”

“I know. But Sam, now what? You call up three weeks ago, fangirling about meeting the real life Captain America on a run, and now suddenly you’re blowing up buildings together? Let alone whatever the fuck happened to my car. Now some woman from Stark Industries comes round and wants Mom to change her name, for us to take the kids out of school, and there’s two sinister looking guys in a black SUV who follow us around every day. Their names are Jason and Paolo, by the way. Paolo likes soccer and follows DC United and Jason’s favourite food is lasagne. Jamie decided to knock on the car window one day and ask.”

“Of course she did. But Maria - that's the agent that you met – she’s right. The things we’re doing, the people we’re dealing with... I’m sorry, but you should think about taking her up on that extra security.”

Tessa sighs and drains her glass. “What the hell have you got involved in, Sammy?”

“Honestly, Tess? I have no idea. I’m just taking each day as it comes, right now. But doing this, following Steve...I know I can make a difference.”

“What about the VA? Weren’t you making a difference there?”

“I haven’t quit. I’ve asked for a transfer and they approved it. I start at the VA in New York next Wednesday, part time.”

“New York, huh? Well, I guess at least it’s not Kabul.” Her mouth gave a quirk up at the side but he knows she isn’t happy. “But what about your apartment here? Where are you going to live while you do this mysterious-whatever-it-is that you’re doing?”

Sam just looks at her, wondering what on earth he’s going to say, how much he  _ can _ say, when Tessa adds two and two, and in that annoyingly perfect way of hers, reaches infinity.

“Oh my God,” she says. “It’s the goddamn Avengers, isn’t it? My baby brother is actually joining the  _ motherfucking  _ Avengers.”

“I don’t know. Maybe. And mind your language, there’re kids about.”

“Shut up,” Tessa says, her eyes wide. “They’re mine to corrupt.  _ Holy shit. _ Why do the Avengers need a pararescueman? Are you getting a plane? Forget that, are you getting a  _ suit _ ? A robot suit, like Iron Man? Are you gonna  _ fly _ again?”

He can’t help but smile. “Yeah, Tess. I’m gonna fly again.”

“Come here,” she says, and drags him into a hug. They hold on for almost a full minute before Tess says, quietly, into his shoulder.

“Just don’t die, okay?”

“I won’t,” Sam agrees. “Besides, I’m keeping company with a whole bunch of folks these days who seem to be functionally immortal. My chances of survival are looking good.”

“If they can’t die then, statistically, it’s more likely to be you.” Tessa points out as she tops up both their glasses. “To my brother,” she toasts. “Sam the Superhero.”

Sam wrinkles his nose. “ _ Jesus, _ that sounds so corny.”

“Better than ‘Avenger Sam’. Ooh, have you got a superhero name? Does Captain America give those out or do you...”

“No, I don’t have a superhero name.”

“Shame. ‘Wilson the Wonder’, maybe...no, too much like a carnival wizard. How about ‘Sarcasm-man’? Or ‘Staff Sergeant Cinnamon Roll’... Wait, have you met Tony Stark yet?”

“Yeah. He’s kind of a dick.”

“Figures. Rich folks.” She shrugs, and then sobers slightly. “What  _ are _ you going to do for the Avengers though?”

“I’m not really sure. Nothing’s official yet. To be honest, I think for the time being they’re going to need me for skill-sets other than my handsome face, piloting skills and whip-fast tactical instincts.”

“You’re doing counselling? Really? For the  _ Avengers? _ ”

“Lots of people in all walks of life find things tough now and again, you know that. And some of the people in that tower have seen worse than I can imagine. They’ve lost...a lot. There’s this one guy...I don’t know if I can actually do anything to help him. But I gotta try.”

“And that’s why we love you, baby bro.”

“Hey, so all of this...Avengers stuff? I don’t think you should tell anyone yet, okay? Not even Suzanna, definitely not the kids. It might not be safe.”

“I know. But you’d better keep your mug off the news then, because if Jamie spots you then you’ll literally never hear the end of it. And come up with something to tell Mom, okay? She thinks you’ve been recruited to go undercover in the Mafia or something. She may have been binge-watching  _ The Sopranos _ again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea if MCU Sam Wilson has a family, I'm pretty sure we never hear of them if he does. Tessa was namedropped back in Unquiet; all the rest of them are my own invention. Bit of a break out chapter this one, but we're back into the meat of the plot next week.


	9. Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta read by [theAsh0](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theAsh0/pseuds/theAsh0).

Steve’s phone buzzes while he’s telling Sam’s face on the view screen that everything is fine.

CLINT BARTON: Might want 2 think about wrapping it up

STEVE ROGERS: What’s happened?

CLINT BARTON: Nothing but ur boy is getting twitchy up in here

Steve says goodbye to Sam and then doublet-times it back up to his apartment. He’s noticed Bucky is usually more docile and quiet in the mornings just after his meds, and by mid afternoon it is definitely the time he’s starting to get restless.

Bucky is pacing when Steve walks into the lounge from the hall, but he stops abruptly the moment Steve crosses the threshold. Clint is on his right, watching TV with the sound off and lounging against the arm of the couch with an ostentatiously casual air.

“Hey,” he says, glancing up as Steve enters. “How did it go?”

“Okay, I think,” Steve answers. “Pepper brought this lawyer, I think they just wanted to-“

The words die away as Bucky shifts, suddenly turns, and strides purposefully across the room towards him. Bucky comes to a stop, perhaps two metres away from Steve, and raises his chin. Steve carefully looks away, letting Bucky study him if he wants to. But then Bucky takes the last few steps, reaches out his real hand and in one firm, confident movement, grasps Steve’s wrist.

Steve is stunned. This is the first contact Bucky has initiated that wasn’t an attack, and it takes a moment for him to register the feel of Bucky’s fingertips pressed against the pulse point beneath his thumb for what it is. Bucky’s checking his vital signs.

“Everything okay, Buck?”

“He told me you were dead,” Bucky says, bluntly.

“What!?” says Clint, with almost comedic outrage. “I so absolutely did not!” He vaults over the back of the couch and faces them, arms folded. “Seriously. You  _ asked _ if Steve was dead, for some reason, and what I actually said was _he’s fine_ and _he'll be back any minute_.”

“It’s okay,” Steve says. “It’s okay, I don’t think he’s talking about you, Clint.” 

Bucky himself hasn’t dropped Steve’s wrist and he hasn’t looked away. “You died,” he says. “I saw a newspaper.” His tone is strange, slightly petulant, as if he’s vaguely annoyed by Steve’s duplicity.

The mention of a newspaper quickly clues Steve in to what Bucky’s talking about. Reproductions of the front pages, dated March 7th 1945, are emblazoned 20ft high across one wall of the ‘regeneration room’ at the Smithsonian exhibit.  _ CAPTAIN AMERICA IS DEAD _ , reads one headline, in stark, unforgiving capitals. Then, in smaller text below;  _ Captain Steven Rogers Killed In Action While Protecting American Lives.  _ There was a picture too, cut from one of the newsreels, of him in the suit in the middle of issuing some order, pointing out across a sea of helmets. A commander inspiring his men. A leader. An icon. The newsprint was so large on the museum wall that when Steve had stood too close, the image of his own face had disintegrated into nothing but halftone ink blots splattered against a bleak sepia landscape. 

He’s been to the museum a lot but he never lingers in the room with the headlines; it’s too painful a reminder of who had been left behind him to read them. The abiding ray of light had been that at least Sarah Rogers had not been one of those people. But Winifred Barnes was.

After Bucky fell, Philips’ telegram would have gone to Becca; that was the arrangement. Winnie couldn’t hear again that Bucky was dead or captured, not from a stranger. Not after Azzano. It would have killed her. So Becca would have been handed the notification by a Western Union courier, and, after a few days to build up her courage, she would have told their mother. Steve should have written to her himself, after Austria. He intended to, wanted to. He owed Bucky that much. But somehow there just never seemed to be enough time. The Commandos hadn’t got back to base with Zola until the 2nd February, then it was another five days long days back to London. A couple of days of debrief, then several more for Chester Philip’s telegram to reach the top of the communications list. Faster than usual, given the Commandos’ fame and the influence of the SSR, but still slow enough that Winnie would probably have known for as few as five days that Bucky was never coming home before Steve crashed the Valkyrie into the ice and the face of the man that had led Bucky to his death was plastered all over the city, hailed as a hero, a saviour, a martyr, while her boy; her good, loyal, loving son faded into a historical footnote under the eclipsing shadow of the man that had led him to his death. Winnie had been like another mother to Steve, once. He wonders if she spent the rest of her life hating him.

Steve drags his attention back to the present. 

“A...newspaper?” Clint is asking, sounding puzzled.

Bucky nods. “He’s been dead three years,” he says, his words bound with a German accent, uttered like a recitation. “See? Read it. Read the date. That was 1945. There’s no rescue coming.”

He stops, abruptly, and Steve feels like he’s been gut shot all over again. Every single thing Bucky remembers feels worse than the last.

“Well, they were wrong,” Steve says, as firmly as he can, trying not to give way to the creeping horror of Bucky’s words.  _ He’s been dead three years. _ Bucky hadn’t known about Steve going down on the Valkyrie ‘till 1948. HYDRA let him spend three years waiting for a rescue that was never coming, letting that seed of hope linger on – Steve’s still out there, he’ll never give up - before they finally crushed him.

“Feel my pulse," Steve says. "I’m not dead. They were wrong. I’m right here and I’m not going anywhere.”

Bucky glances at Clint then, and it’s strangely like he’s awaiting confirmation.

“Uh, yeah, he’s...telling the truth. Steve’s alive,” Clint supplies, looking just as puzzled by Bucky’s deference. “He’s definitely not dead.” 

Bucky nods again. “Okay,” he says, and lets Steve’s arm go. He steps back several paces until his back is against the wall and then he just stands, parade rest.

“So have you boys had a good afternoon?” Steve asks with forced jollity, trying to forget the whirlwind of emotions he’s just been forced through. His wrist is still warm where Bucky held it.

“It’s been a laugh a minute,” says Clint. “Honestly, you should sell tickets.” He leans over and tosses a small book towards Steve. “Joking aside, your guy actually has impressive focus. We’ve gone through thirty signs in just over forty minutes and so far he’s retained all of it. He’s fast; you’ve got some catching up to do.”

Steve glances at the booklet. It’s called  _ ASL: My first one-hundred signs.  _ Steve’s list of suggested words is tucked in the front and Clint has added a few more;  _ talk, scared, food _ ,  _ happy  _ and, for some reason,  _ fuck off. _

Steve looks up at Clint a little disapprovingly.

“What?” Clint counters, with a shrug. “Man’s gotta know how to express himself. Ain’t that right, buddy?”

Bucky doesn’t move a muscle in his face but his right hand flicks out, middle finger extended in a gesture Steve assumes no-one needed a translation for. 

“Nice,” says Clint, approvingly.

Steve rolls his eyes, but smiles. “You remember anything else but the bad language, pal?”

Bucky raises his hand slightly but he doesn’t sign again. “I have a new comms manual,” he says instead. Steve sees another copy of the booklet tucked into his sweatpants’ pocket. “It will take over forty hours to reach fluency.”

“That’s great, Bucky,” says Steve, drawing his palm down from his chin, the handspeak sign for  _ good _ . He’d taught himself a few signs that morning while Bucky had been in his medical check-up. It’s no use Bucky knowing how to speak if Steve can’t understand when he does. “Are you hungry?” he adds, dragging his thumb and curled fingers down his sternum.  _ Hungry. _ Clint reaches over and adjusts the angle of his hand slightly. Nods his approval when Steve repeats it correctly.

“No,” Bucky answers.

“He drank a whole cup of formula at lunch,” Clint says. “But he only managed about five fluid ounces after that before he started turning green.”

Steve frowns. “Okay. Well, thanks for trying.”

Clint just nods and then glances at his watch. “I gotta split,” he says. “Got some, uh, errands to run for Hill.”

“Anything serious?” Steve asks, attention suddenly caught. 

“Just rumours for now,” Clint replies. “Could be nothing. Could be a shitshow. If I’m lucky I might get to shoot some Hydra fuckers in the head. My favourite kind of day.”

“Stay safe,” Steve says, and Clint quirks his chin.

“Where’d be the fun in that?”

Clint has only been gone a matter of minutes and Steve is just mixing up a fresh batch of formula and wondering if there’s any real food in the place when his phone rings.

_“Oh good, you’re back,”_ says Tony, without preamble. _“Get down here.”_

“Tony? What’s happened?” Steve rubs his eyes, feeling like he’s lurching from one crisis to another.

_ “Um, remember a certain feral Soviet assassin with a cybernetic arm? Bruce and I didn’t sit up all night ruining our eyesight and our circadian rhythms working on this clusterfuck for you to have a senile moment...” _

Steve glances at the clock. 1500 hours, well after Tony’s self-imposed deadline. “Tony--”

_ “Whatever. Get down to the lab. Bring  _ him _ and something sugary or deep fried. Preferably both.” _

“Does that mean you’ve got good news?”

_ “We’ve got...news. Qualification at this point would be premature, and while I am nothing if not lacking in maturity, Bruce is the father figure we all wish we’d had.” _

The call ends.

Steve, with Bucky in tow, makes it down to the lab within half an hour, after Bucky has been coaxed into drinking another round of formula and the box of doughnuts Steve ordered from a local bakery arrives. Open bribery is a small price to pay for Tony’s help. Tony is darting about the room with the kind of exhausted nervous energy Steve associates with stressed-out rookies just before they fumble a grenade throw and accidentally blow up half their platoon. Bruce is the opposite in his tiredness, slumped quiet and yawning over a StarkPad and pile of papers at the workbench. Steve spots a schematic of the Soldier’s elbow joint in amongst the scattered work.

“So,” Stark begins without preamble, as soon as Bucky is settled on Stark’s napping couch across the room and the couch’s owner has consumed three donuts faster than Steve can watch. “The first thing you need to know about the arm is that it’s impossible. It shouldn’t exist.”

Bruce catches Steve’s expression and clarifies. “By that we don’t mean it’s a massively invasive, dangerous and traumatic bodily modification which was no doubt undertaken without consent or anaesthesia, although that is also true.” 

“It’s more that the technology used to make it,” Tony cuts in. “It literally doesn’t exist. I can tell you what the thing is made of and more or less how it goes together, but as to how it  _ works _ ...Let’s just summarise that no one built this in 1945, or in 1965, or even 2005. It’s goddamn impossible.” 

“You’re saying you _can’t_ fix it?”

“Yes.” Bruce answers at the exact same moment that Tony says “No.”

They glare at each other for a second.

“You gotta tell him,” says Bruce.

“Fine,” says Tony, and then he makes a  _ flicking _ motion with the phone in his hand. “You ever heard of a town called Puente Antiguo? Dry, hot, flattened by interdimensional beings...”

“It’s a town in New Mexico,” answers Steve, cautiously. “It’s where SHIELD first made contact with Thor.”

Just as he finishes speaking, an image is projected up into the air ahead of them. A sun-bleached, pastel-hewn town, wreathed in smoke and scattered debris, a muscular blond man in dark clothing is facing a metal creature: a titan with a face of fire. A spear of flaming energy scorches the ground, a fist that size of someone’s head closes over a car, and Steve sees the metal plates which form the creature’s arm tighten and ripple, falling shut and locking tight in a way that is painfully familiar as the thing prepares to strike again, aggressive, powerful... _ alien... _

“Holy...” Steve breathes out. “You think the arm is alien.”

“Ten points to Hufflepuff.” Tony says.

“Really?” mutters Bruce.

Tony and Steve ignore him. Tony flicks the phone again, bringing up a schematic of the forearm plates. “Specifically Asgardian.”

“Or something like it,” Bruce chimes in again. “We’re guessing there was a lot more in that vault in Tønsberg than just the tesseract.”

“We know that HYDRA had access to a lot of advanced tech,” Steve agrees. “Spent most of 1944 trying to track down everything they had and destroy it. I know we never managed to get it all. But even then there’s no way they had a human-sized Destroyer arm just laying around...”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Of course not, genius. HYDRA  _ built _ the arm, but they did it using stuff they’d learned from the Asgardian artefacts - the materials are all real, earth sourced, at least. The body of the arm is formed of synthetic polymers and biomaterials that I can easily recreate. The outer facing is a vibranium alloy with more of the good stuff in than standard adamantium, though how the shit they got hold of that I really don’t know. High vibranium content was the only thing I could be sure of before I saw it, though, otherwise every time Red Scare punched through a building it would have ripped his spine out. The technology that makes the thing work is the Asgardian part. You notice if your popsicle pal’s been particularly cold recently?”

“Yeah. I thought that was the blood loss. Shock.”

“Maybe in part,” Bruce agrees. “But the arm literally harvests energy from Barnes’ own biosystems to power itself. His caloric intake, body heat, mechanical energy...they all feed into a miniaturised dual function thermoelectric and electrodynamic generator here in the shoulder that powers the rest of the functions. The way he uses the arm like a battering ram or a bullet shield? That takes a lot of energy.”

“Great. So it’s parasitical too.” Steve folds his arms.

“Well, I guess you could describe it like that if you wanted to get all melodramatic about it,” Tony says. 

“Can you repair it?”

“No chance. Not while it’s still attached. I just don’t know enough about it. Gotta take it apart, see inside it with my own eyes. Scans and guesswork only get you so far.”

“But you can remove it."

“No.” This time both of the scientists are in agreement.

“You’re not really hearing what we’re saying here, Cap,” says Tony. “Like I said before, this... weapon is wired into his goddamn _spine_. It’s _permanent_. The only way to remove it would be to blow the shit out of it with a repulsor beam and then pick out the chunky pieces, and, fun as that sounds, it doesn’t really align with our end goal of not fucking this guy up any more.”

“So we call Thor.” Steve says. “If his people built it...”

“Jeez, Rogers, get with the programme! The Asgardians  _ didn’t  _ build this. They didn’t even design it.” Stark turns away from then and leans over the bench top. “Someone working for Hydra in the 50s had access to Asgardian tech. They cherry-picked what they wanted, did a few basic experiments, jury-rigged the rest and then went to town on your buddy’s torso.”

“Zola? He was--”

“No. Not Zola.” Tony says, looking away. “It was my Dad.”

Steve is silent, stunned. He looks at Bruce, but he's looking dismayed too; he didn’t know this either. 

Eventually Tony turns around. “Look, I know the old man’s work, okay? I’ve seen enough of it over the years.”

“No.” Steve is shaking his head. “That’s impossible. Howard working for HYDRA? That’s insane. We worked together two years to bring HYDRA down, and he spent decades more after that with Peggy and the SSR. And he  _ knew _ Bucky. They were friends. There’s no way Howard would have...the things they did...”

He trails off into silence.

“Maybe not,” says Tony, overly casual. “I never knew him as well as you did. Maybe Zola just showed him some of the Asgardian tech, planted a few ideas about battle-ready prosthetics, and then smuggled his finished designs back to HYDRA. Maybe Dad didn’t know about HYDRA, or Barnes, or didn’t know what it was he was designing for them.  _ But he sure as hell didn’t ask. _ ”

“Whoever’s fault this was,” Bruce intervenes, steadily. "Whoever did what to whom, who did or didn’t know about HYDRA...I’m sorry, but none of that really matters now. We can’t change it. We need to look at the problem in hand; how are we going to help Winter?”

Steve takes a deep breath, head reeling. He glances over at Bucky across the lab, where he has been sitting silently on the floor with his back up against Tony’s couch. His head is sunk down against the arm on his knees, face hidden by the sweep of his hair. He might be asleep.

“Okay,” Steve says. “Okay. Tell me what you know so far. Why can’t the arm be detached?”

“Well, firstly,” says Tony, after a moment of silence. “It wasn’t built to be removable. It’s not  _ attached _ so much as... _ installed _ .” 

“We’ve been consulting with Harry Mak, he's a prosthetic osseointegration expert from Manchester,” Bruce explains. “That’s  _ bone-anchoring _ to you and me. He’s looked over the blueprints. Don’t worry, we didn’t tell him anything so he thought he was receiving the plans of an unfinished prototype. He, uh, had quite a lot to say on the designs... _ excruciating, inhumane and unethical  _ were the key phrases that I remember, along with  _ what the fuck is wrong with you people _ , but when he’d calmed down, we did have a useful conversation. The bad news is that it wasn’t just Bucky’s arm that was replaced.”

Steve crosses his arms. “You wanna expand on that?”

“You know how much a severed human arm weighs?” Stark asks, and then adds loudly in Bucky’s direction; “Do not answer that, Assassin’s Creed.”

Bucky doesn’t even look up.

“I have no idea,” Steve says. “Is this relevant?”

“Hear me out. You weigh, ballpark, 240 pounds, right?”

Steve nods. 

“But Darth Vader here tops you weight-wise ‘cause he clocks in at a whopping 264. Now I know those super-soldier serums densify muscle and pack on the pounds, but he’s a couple of inches shorter than you and about half as hench, even when he’s not two milkshakes away from starving to death. I guess HYDRA’s version of the serum lacked that good old farm-fresh brand guarantee, so he didn’t change as much as you did physically anyway. Either that or he’s been half starved for so long his muscle density hasn’t had a chance to develop yet and he’ll get bigger now he’s actually getting some goddamn food. Whatever. But in essence, what I’m getting at here is that he’s _too heavy_. We’re all about body positivity here at SI but in the interests of scientific enquiry, I went ahead and worked out how much the arm weighs. The vibranium alone... anyway, upshot is the whole thing clocks in somewhere in the region of 52 pounds.”

“That’s around four times as heavy as his natural arm,” Bruce explains. “It’d be like carrying three or four car batteries around in one hand  _ all the time _ .”

“But...” Steve breathes. “Then  _ how _ is it attached? That makes no sense. He shouldn’t even be able to stand...”

“Didn’t you wonder about that walk?” Tony snorts. “I saw the CCTV from the overpass in DC. That’s a compensation gait, not just a sexy murder swagger. But anyway, the reason he can even lift the thing at all... JARVIS, you wanna bring up the hologram?”

The image of the Winter Soldier forms in the air again like a ghost. Tony points as the visuals of the arm explode, the plating flying away, and beneath, artificial muscle peels back in layers over fake bone. He expands the area of the shoulder where the metal slides beneath Bucky’s skin. The hologram swishes and turns, and Steve sees a close-up of Bucky’s side and chest.

“See here?” Bruce points as he catalogues the horror show that is Bucky’s body. “They essentially stripped down and rebuilt most of his shoulder. All of these muscles, nerves and bones are artificial. Two ribs, clavicle and subclavius, trapezius, pectoralis major and minor, teres major and minor, serratus anterio, probably the latissimus dorsi too, as well as all the muscles and bones of the arm; deltoid, tricep, _et cetera_. And here, see these?”

Bruce points to an array of curved white lines that arc downwards across Bucky’s back and chest from the shoulder like a starburst, or the flying buttresses in a gothic cathedral.

“These are metal braces that form the support structures for the prosthetic and help to distribute the weight of the arm around his vertebrae and ribs. This is where the problem lies; at some point, the eighth and ninth ribs got broken and shoved out of position. The corresponding anchors, which clearly have a lower vibranium content, if any, have buckled away from their attachments to the bone, so the weight of the arm isn’t balanced. It’s been dragging on the broken bone and tearing the muscle around it since then. Something hit him really, really hard.”

No-one points out that it was quite possibly Steve.

“Is there any good news?”

“The scapula still seems to be real,” Bruce says. “But it is massively reinforced. There may even be part of the upper humerus which is still intact, in which case they probably built the structure of the new joint around it. I can’t tell.”

There is silence for a second, and they all turn to look at Bucky. He’s silent and still, face pressed into the metal arm, head low. His back moves slowly as he breathes. Perhaps he really is asleep.

“You can’t remove it because it’s built into his torso.” Steve summarises, wondering if he’s going to throw up. Asgard, Howard, artificial ribs.... At least there’s no way this could be worse.

“It’s as connected to his body as a real arm would be,” Bruce nods. “It’s the only way he could interact with a prosthetic so well.”

“Bruce’s perky little Mancunian bone-doctor friend will have to explain the rest of this,” Tony says, with a look of dislike on his face. “But basically it seems that HYDRA ran a bunch of fake nerves up the arm and plugged them back into the shoulder at points where the main nerves weren’t shot to hell. Then there’s an array of neural implants in his brain and spine that make up for the rest, carrying motor control and sensation.”

And there is the worse. 

“ _ Sensation? _ You’re saying he can feel...” Steve cuts off abruptly; all he can see is the Winter Soldier skidding backwards down the overpass at 40 mph, fingers tearing up the asphalt. If he could feel that...

“No,” Bruce was quick to clarify. “We don’t think he can feel pain. Not in the way you’re thinking, not from the arm itself. We’ll have to run some tests, but there’s probably some sensation of pressure, touch, maybe hot and cold. The pain he’s in right now is caused by the connections between the artificial and real bone and muscle, and in areas where the strain on the arm is pulling on the rest of his body. Steve, I don’t think this is going to help, but from looking at the file...a lot of these problems are from the lengthy untreated injuries and the lack of his serum-enhanced healing. I honestly don’t think he’s been out of cryosleep and away from his usual maintenance team long enough for this to have been such a serious problem in the past. But I expect there must have been some chronic pain all the time from his joints and spine, just from the weight of the thing."

Steve nods, numbly. “What are we going to do?”

“Well,” says Bruce. “I think there’s two options. My preferred is the second - we get Harry Mak and a surgical team in, see if they can deal with the damage to his rib cage without removing the arm, and while he’s under, refit a new anchor on the broken ribs. The arm will stay and we’ll have to try and reverse engineer any other maintenance problems as they arise. The problem will be, healing as slow as he is right now, I doubt we can keep the weight of the arm off the fractures for long enough for surgical sites to knit properly. We might end up making it worse.”

“And the other option? Option One?”

“We break it,” says Tony. 

“Excuse me?”

“Just about here.” Tony gestures on the hologram to the curve of the deltoid, just below a point of the star. “I can detach some of the plating here, get inside the inspection hatch and then cut a bunch of the connecting tissues from the inside, plug the coolant tubes, tie off the fake nerves...Might have to snap a few bits apart but...”

“You can get the arm off?”

Tony nods. “Most of it anyway. Then the medical guys can do their bit with the squishy stuff. He’ll be down an arm but it gives him time to get healed up properly and I can take the thing apart, see how it works, without being worried about having my face punched in.”

“Could you get the rest of the stuff out of his shoulder? The artificial muscle and bone?”

Tony shrugs. “ _ I  _ can’t. I don’t do organics.” 

He looks pointedly at Bruce, who shakes his head. “There’s just not enough of his shoulder and upper thorax left, Steve. Sorry. The support structures have to stay.” 

“What about a replacement prosthetic then? Something lighter, something less...”

“Less HYDRA?” says Stark, with a shrug. “Maybe. I’ll think about it.”

“All right,” says Steve, taking a deep breath. “All right. Do it. Option One. Take it off.”

“Guys, hang on a minute,” Bruce is holding his hands up. “Let’s just think about this. Steve, there was a reason I said this wasn’t a good option. What I said before about him feeling pain...yes, if you slashed at the vibranium plating with a knife or shot a bullet at the arm, he probably doesn’t register the surface impact as pain. But the complexity of the connections between the robotic parts of the arm, the artificial bone and muscle in the shoulder socket and Winter’s real tissue and nerves... it’s like nothing Harry had ever seen before. If we try to disconnect those links, much less forcibly severe them, that’s going to create a massive feedback loop to the neural implants. It’s going to be like having an organic limb ripped off.”

“No biggie,” Tony says. “That’s what we have the good drugs for.” 

“No _biggie!_? Tony, come on. Sure, sedation will help with the shock and pain, but that’s not the issue here.” Bruce is not looking happy. “Steve, have you noticed that you only ever refer to it as ‘the arm’ or ‘it’? You’ve never once called it ‘his arm’ or ‘Bucky’s arm’. Yes, sure, the thing is alien, intrusive, but we have no idea how much he remembers, if he remembers anything at all. So, to Winter, it’s probably just the way things have always been. That arm might be as natural to him as the rest of his body. It’s all he’s ever known. You knock him out and when he wakes up his arm has gone again? What the hell is that going to do to his mind? I know he is incapacitous right now but I don’t think you can just start taking his body apart without his permission. God knows how much that would mess with his head.”

“He doesn’t understand what’s going on, Bruce. I don’t think we have much of a choice. He’s in pain, all the time. If this is the only way we can get the physical damage repaired, we have to try.”

Bruce sighs. “I hate this,” he mutters. “Every choice seems like the wrong one.”

“I know,” says Steve. “It’s been like that since Day One. But we just gotta-”

It’s at precisely that moment that Bucky starts screaming.

Bruce startles so hard he almost falls over and Tony whirls around, a gauntlet snapping into place over his raised fist. Steve abandons them both and is at Bucky’s side in a few seconds. Bucky has fallen away from the couch and is crouching with his side pressed against the wall, his head down and fingers wrenching on his hair. He screams again through clenched teeth, choking, anguished.

“Bucky! Buck, it’s okay,” Steve crouches down a metre away, reaches out, hesitates. “Bucky, please, open your eyes. It’s just a dream.”

Bucky lurches sideways, striking his head against the wall once, twice.

“Easy, take it easy! You’re okay, Bucky, just relax, it was just...”

Steve can’t reach Bucky’s hand from here to draw the grounding symbol and Bucky isn’t responding to his voice. Bucky seems almost hysterical; whatever he saw in his sleep has terrified him to his core. He’s sobbing now, face wet and scrunched, huddled in on himself, tearing at his own hair. He rocks forward again and Steve tries to catch his arm. Bucky jerks away, gasping, crying.

“Jesus,” Steve hears one of the others say. “Steve, should I call someone...?” 

Something makes a sharp, clattering sound as Bruce steps towards them and Bucky goes instantly silent and still, like a hunted animal. Like he did after the shower screen broke. He is still crouched, his arms up over his head, but it’s like he’s been turned to stone. Steve can’t even see him breathing, he’s so tense, terrified...

“It’s okay, Bucky.” Steve says again, softly, hoping Bucky can hear him now. “You’re safe. No-one is going to hurt you.”

Through the barrier of his arms Steve can see Bucky’s eyes glinting. Very slowly, and keeping up his reassuring litany, Steve reaches for Bucky’s real hand and carefully peels the fingers apart, releasing the trapped hair from his grip. Bucky still hasn’t looked up, but he drags his freed hand back out of Steve’s grasp before Steve can do anything, and presses the back of his hand to his mouth, as if he’s trying to stop any more screams escaping.

They stay crouched there for a long time before Steve can finally take Bucky home.


	10. Asset

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta read by [theAsh0](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theAsh0/pseuds/theAsh0).

The Asset has been sitting on the edge of the bed for four hours.

It is alone. No-one has given it any orders. 

Yesterday, Steve had said  _ Just try and sleep, okay, Bucky? But if you can’t, that’s okay, you can get up if you want to or use the bathroom. Whatever you want. Just get some rest, please _ . The remainder of the order was confusing, but the bathroom at least it understands. The Asset is capable of undertaking basic self maintenance, when required. It showers, washing the body and hair in hot water because no-one has said that isn’t allowed. There is a new glass door. Liquid soap in a small tube has a neutral, subtle smell, nothing like the cloying perfume of artificial chemicals that billows in clouds around some civilians. This soap smells like Steve.

There is no tactical gear laid out, so the Asset unfolds more of the soft clothes from the cupboard to wear. It dresses and then sits on the edge of the bed while it waits for Steve or for orders. It feels alert...restless. The body fits better today, skin wrapped smoothly around its consciousness without snags or tears. The bad pain in its side is lessened. It might even be ready for the next mission.

For a while it talks to the computer that lives in the walls. Questions are permitted and the Asset doesn't need to initiate or avoid eye contact. The computer tells the Asset that it is in New York City and that it is 2013. Facts of unknown tactical relevance at this time. The Asset learns from the computer that this is the most secure building in Manhattan, and that it is not within the functionality of the computer to give the Asset orders. 

The Asset looks at the items on the table next to the unused pillow, the items which Steve says belong to it. The code book and the comms manuals. Two books of small, blocky text. Cigarettes. The blue blanket. The crayons. In the last two days have been added a ration bar sealed in a shiny foil wrapper from the man called Bruce, and a blank notebook. Steve said this was in case the Asset wanted to write down or draw any thoughts or memories it has. The book remains blank, positioned neatly between the manuals and the novels, to the left of the crayons. 

There are no weapons.

“Hey Bucky.”

Steve is here. As usual, he knocks twice on the door, pauses, and then opens it. He doesn’t come into the room today, just leans in the doorway, arms folded, casually. 

“Did you sleep well? You seemed quiet last night, but I wasn’t sure...How are you feeling?”

There is silence for a few moments.

The Soldier dislikes that question. There are no clear parameters for what the correct answer should be, but by observation it has found one that is usually acceptable. The Asset’s right hand spells out  _ okay. _

“Great. Up for some breakfast?” 

Steve takes the Asset to the main lounge area and gives it a cup of the stodgy liquid to drink; it is pink and tastes like the slime on stagnant water. The Asset thinks its displeasure might show on its expression because Steve’s face does a crinkly frown. That makes the Asset anxious so it wipes any expression from its own face and makes sure to drink all of the liquid down quickly. When the body tries to rebel, it clamps the metal hand over its face and waits it out. The food does not reappear. The Soldier feels a strange sense of satisfaction in this. Steve smiles.

Time passes and then Steve says:

“Look, Buck. Tomorrow, you have a- there’s someone who would like to talk with you. Her name is Emma, Emma Pedley. She’s a- a specialist who I think can help you. There’s an appointment scheduled tomorrow, at 10, after your usual medical. Will you go?”

The Asset makes a partial motion with its hands but realises that it doesn’t yet know the signs. It settles for speaking out loud instead. 

“I will...I will go there.” 

“You will? You sure?” Steve’s eyes are wide, his voice sounds excited. He is pleased with the Asset’s acquiescence. “Okay, Bucky, that’s great. I’ll let Dr Pedley know.”

A  _ doctor _ . The Soldier is not surprised. It doesn’t want to see any more doctors but non-compliance is not acceptable. 

The Asset waits for the next order. It feels odd, like there’s something missing from the room and it is not just orders. It looks around the apartment. It feels...unsettled. Yes. The other handler is missing. Sam Wilson. Sam.

Time passes. Steve takes it down to the medical bay where it is examined and given pills to swallow. They return to the apartment. The Asset drifts around the space like a ghost, unsettled, without purpose. It feels itself moving in and out of existence in different parts of the floor as time flows away. Hours go by as it watches a bird outside the window or water dripping from a tap. 

Sometimes it is aware that Steve is watching it anxiously. They walk up and down the main corridor 23 times because the Asset’s limbs start to shake when it sits still too long. Eventually Steve informs the building that they are leaving the floor, and they go for a walk up the fire stairs, by a small hangar, and onto the roof. The base is not what it expected. The Asset can see they are at the top of a tall tower in the middle of the city. Manhattan. New York. The tower is highly unusual; it gives good sight lines of the buildings around but is some distance from the closest. Further than a human could jump. The Asset feels surprisingly safe. When the undefined task of acquiring  _ fresh air _ has been achieved they walk all the way back down to the apartment. The Asset’s thoughts feel clearer.

Steve asks it a lot of questions. The Asset knows very few answers.

“Is there anything you want to talk about?” Steve asks at some point in the afternoon. The Asset says nothing and he continues. “About yesterday, perhaps? When you fell asleep in the lab. I shouldn't have taken you there, I'm sorry about that. But it seemed like you were dreaming about something bad. It might help to talk about it. If you want.”

The Soldier frowns. 

“I’ve killed a lot of people,” it answers. 

Steve stares. “You...you remember? You remember them?”

“Some,” admits the Asset, reluctantly. It must answer, must be truthful, but they don’t like it when it remembers. They will want to wipe it again now. They don’t seem to realise that sooner or later it all seeps back through, like pus from an infection, oozing from the toxic splinter of Sergeant Barnes embedded in this hollow flesh. 

“Is that what you were dreaming about?” Steve asks. “The things they made you do?”

The Asset considers. “Did I kill Sam?”

“Pardon?” says Steve, blinking.

“He was here and now he isn’t here.” The Soldier reasons. “I’m unstable. Sometimes I kill the handlers.”

“God, no, Bucky. Sam is just fine, you didn’t hurt him. He’s fine, he just went away for a few days.”

“He gave me a blanket,” the Asset adds, disconcerted. Almost...unhappy. It doesn’t know why. It shouldn’t be questioning Steve, and besides, Sam Wilson had been a terrible handler. He had shot the Soldier and poisoned it and shouted at it. He didn’t follow the protocols correctly or provide the appropriate orders, and that had made the Asset feel bad, stressed, afraid. But he had been  _ nice  _ too . He had given the Asset books and crayons, he’d let it wash in hot water and he told the Asset it had done good. The Asset does not want to think that he is dead.

“He’s not dead, Bucky, I promise. Look, I’ll show you, okay? One second...”

Steve takes out a flat device from his pocket. He taps it, puts it to his face and half turns away. The Asset hears him say:

“Hi Sam, look, I’m sorry to call again...no, nothing like that, he’s fine, really, a few speed bumps but I’ll catch you up later...yeah, he’s sitting across from me...actually that’s the thing, he’s got it into his head that you died or something because he hasn’t seen you around for a few days. I don’t know, maybe a dream he had. I think he’s actually kind of worried. I’m going to put you on video, can you just talk to him so he can see you’re fine? Thanks.”

Steve holds out the cell phone and shows the Asset how to hold it, with its fingers around the narrow edge of the rectangle. The metal fingers keep slipping but the meat hand sticks better. On a screen that fills the entire front of the device is a man’s face, moving and smiling. It is Sam. 

_ “Hey, man,” _ says Sam’s voice from the device, while his mouth moves in synchrony. A hand comes up and waves.  _ “How are you doing?” _

The Asset doesn’t say anything, just observes the screen, sees how Sam is moving; he’s standing in front of some bushes and a fence, perhaps a yard or a park, urban green space. In the background it can hear traffic, children’s voices.

_ “Steve said you missed me, that’s sweet,” _ Sam continues, and his tone is light. He’s teasing.  _ “But as you can see, I’m fine. I’ll be back in New York the day after tomorrow, so I’ll see you then, okay Winter?” _

“Okay,” says the Asset, and it puts the device down on the floor and pushes it back towards Steve. 

Sam is not dead, just like Steve was not dead, despite what the newspaper said. The Asset files those pieces of information away, and the anxious feeling eases. The stomach settles.

The Americans continue to talk through the phone for some time. Sam's voice says " _ Can’t help but notice all that bruising on his face has gone. Is he..." _

And Steve says: "Yeah. He's healing again. Dr Patel confirmed it. Calories are back up enough that the serum’s kicked in."

_ "That's great news but... What about his ribs? The arm?" _

_ "Not sure yet. He seems more alert so I hope the pain is less..." _

More hours pass. Steve reads out loud from a book; the Soldier tries to retain all the information, the way it has been trained, but it’s a lot to absorb and it is soon overwhelmed. Eventually Steve stops. He turns on a screen in the corner of the room that produces a murmuring sound and shows bright, flickering colourful images that are mesmerising in their motion. The Asset listens out for coded broadcasts, for the strings of five numbers that will activate the other HYDRA sleeper agents, give them their orders, but it doesn’t hear anything relevant.

They watch the people moving to and fro on the screen, talking, laughing, and then someone on the screen picks up a bundle in its arms, a baby, and the baby makes a thin, high scream, like the brakes on a freight car. The Asset stands up.

Steve says: “You okay, Bucky?”

And the Asset says: “Frances is crying. I gotta-” but then it doesn’t know what its mouth is saying or why it stood in the first place. The eyes blink over and over but nothing gets any clearer so it sits back down again. Steve looks all excited, and then sad and then determined but the Asset does not know why. 

He says, “It isn’t gone. I knew it; it’s all still in there, Bucky. We’ll tell Dr Pedley tomorrow that you remembered something. This is good news, it's  _ great  _ news, pal.”

The Asset had forgotten that it has to see another doctor tomorrow. It throws up, twice. It loses some time and when it is aware again it can only speak Hungarian or Farsi and it has remembered being shot out of a tree and then stabbing a man in the neck somewhere in Cambodia. The head pounds. Steve is all soft and quiet at first but he becomes angry when the Asset makes a manual cognitive recalibration to reset the speech programme. The Asset is informed manual cognitive recalibrations are no longer protocol. The Asset is not certain that Steve quite understands how protocol works. 

When the sky outside the tall windows turns dark and the city lights are blazing like flares in the night, Steve puts out all the lights in the apartment and that seems to mean he wants the Asset to go and lie down on the bed in the smaller room. It does as is expected of it. Eventually it hears Steve go into his bedroom and close the door and that means it is safe for the Soldier to get off the bed and lie down on the floor instead. After three hours, the lack of activity sends it into standby. 

The next morning the Asset washes and dresses and, under Steve’s watchful gaze, drinks more pink fluid. This is for nutrition. Then they go out of the apartment and down in the elevator for nine floors. This is the med bay where Steve brings the Soldier every morning at 8.45. There is no-one there but Dr Patel and the med techs. They walk through several rooms that smell of disinfectants and chemicals until they reach the room where Dr Patel sits. He asks the Asset lots of questions as usual and as usual Steve answers most of them. The Soldier’s own voice is coming in fits and starts today, and it uses the wrong language three times. After yesterday it is too nervous to try and self-recalibrate, so it stays silent. That is clearly the safest response. 

There is still no sign of the Chair here either, even though a wipe is severely overdue. 

The Soldier sits in silence as the med tech named Evangeline undertakes the physical exam. She does not seem to realise that  _ sweetpea _ is not one of the Asset’s designated call signs. Perhaps she is dumb, but that doesn't seem likely, not for a med tech. Or maybe it is another one of those names which the handlers or STRIKE teams create for their own entertainment, like  _ dog _ or  _ terminator  _ or  _ shit-for-brains. _ But this doesn’t feel the same. Doesn’t feel cruel. It must be that she too has poor memory retention. Perhaps they also wipe the technicians sometimes. The Asset understands how that feels, the rawness and fear of being newly wiped. It decides it should sit very still and make no sudden movements so as not to frighten her. It doesn’t think about how it could kill her, even though she is so tiny and the Asset is so dangerous.

At 0952, the examination is finished. The Soldier has a new, thin ice pack on its side, a brightly coloured sticker with a cartoon animal and the words  _ I WAS BRAVE FOR THE DOCTOR! _ on its right sleeve, and a small packet of paper tissues. Med tech Evangeline had asked the Soldier to pick up the tissues at the beginning of the examination and they are still clutched in the flesh hand. She tells the Asset it can keep them when it tries to put them down. The Asset looks at Steve. Steve says:

“Yes, buddy, you can keep them if you want.”

“Worked a treat,” says Evangeline to Steve, as she holds out a small cup containing the medications it needs. Two white pills, an orange pill, a red pill, a colourless pill. The Asset swallows them: one, two, three, four, five. 

“Dr Banner noticed it,” says Steve. “That he sat still when he had something to hold. Doesn’t seem to matter what it is.”

“Good instincts on that once,” Evangeline says, as she refits the sling restraining the metal arm. “And you’re all done. Keep monitoring the nausea, Captain Rogers, and fill in the chart for his food, sleep and any other episodes. We can look at it again with the doctors at the end of the week. Have a nice rest of your day, sweetpea.”

“Thanks, Evangeline. Goodbye,” says Steve.

They leave the examination room. Before now they had always returned to the elevators, but now Steve turns the other way and they walk across the med bay and to an office in the corner. Steve knocks. 

An older woman answers the door. She is small in stature, perhaps 60kg, dressed in civilian clothing of a light blue sweater and grey pants. No white coat and her hands are bare, without gloves. She is not armed. 

“Good morning,” she says. “Come in, come in.”

A quick glance around the room shows that it is empty and rather bare. There is no Chair and no cryotube. There are some armchairs, a stool and a desk, all bolted to the floor. One wall formed of windows but no lamps, paperweights, stationary or other useful ornaments that could be utilised as weapons. Despite this there are also no guards. The Soldier could break her neck in under two seconds. The woman is either a dumb, supremely confident that her drugs will subdue the Soldier, or she has other methods at her disposal that it doesn't know of. 

She has pale hair and her mouth crinkles when she smiles at them. There is music playing from a speaker in the corner, very softly. The Asset hears a man’s voice, singing.  _ It's funny how a theme recalls a favorite dream... _ The room smells of something floral and artificial.

The woman shakes Steve’s hand and then invites them both to sit down, gesturing to the bolted-down chairs. The Asset sits on the floor against the solid wall where it can keep sightlines on the windows and the two doors. The woman sits in a chair by the desk, around three metres away. Steve does not sit.

“My name is Emma,” she says, “Emma Pedley. I am a specialist doctor trained in helping people who have been through difficult events. I’d like to try and help you. Today, we’re just going to talk. Is it okay with you if Steve stays in the room? He isn’t going to speak for you though, and it’s perfectly fine if you would like him to wait outside; he won’t mind at all. If you don’t want him to stay, just say so. Or shake your head now.”

_ Forever more's a memory, Please have them play it again _ , sings the man through the speakers.

“Steve can stay,” the Asset says. Why would Steve be anywhere else?

“Okay, that’s good. You can change your mind at any time though. Steve, take a seat over on the couch, please. Well, Sergeant Barnes, how are you feeling today?”

“Don’t-” The Asset begins and then cuts off suddenly. He looks at the floor.

Dr Pedley waits for some time and then prompts.

“What was it you wanted to say, Sergeant?”

“You can’t call me that,” The Asset says. “I’m not him.”

“You’re not whom?”

The Asset is not going to fall into that trap. It stays silent.

“Are you trying to tell me you are not Sergeant Barnes?”

The Asset nods. 

“May I call you James then?”

“No,” says the Asset. “I’m not him.”

“I’m sorry,” says Dr Pedley. “I must have made a mistake. If you aren’t James Barnes then would you mind telling me who you are?”

“Aктив, The Asset,” says the Asset. “They call me Soldier.”

“I see,” Dr Pedley says. “But that sounds like a title. Not a name. Do you know what your name is?”

The Asset shrugs. It isn’t sure it understands. It takes a careful, quick glance at Dr Pedley’s face. She doesn’t look angry.

“If Asset is what you would like to be identified by then we can work with that,” she says. “It’s your choice. But those titles are the sort of words used for objects, not people. You are a person and people have names. Would you maybe like to choose a name for yourself, just for these sessions?”

The Asset pauses. It does not want to choose a name. Any choice would be wrong. It’s all a trap. There is a chill in the air, like ghosts’ fingers. The Asset shudders and huddles down into its clothes. 

“Just think about it,” Dr Pedley says, encouragingly. “You can tell me next time we have a session. When you arrived, I asked you how you were feeling. Do you remember?”

The Asset shrugs.

“Not to worry. It’s an important question though, so I am going to ask it again. Can you tell me how you are feeling?”

The Soldier looks out of the window. This confirms its observations from the roof. The building has good vantage points. It is not overlooked by taller buildings and stands some distance from the nearest building of equivalent height. Making a shot between the two buildings in these crosswinds would be difficult, but not impossible. Not for him.

“Bucky,” a voice is saying. “Bucky.”

The Asset blinks and Steve is there. “You okay to carry on, pal?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I can see that this is a difficult one,” says Dr Pedley, leaning back. “But we’re going to work on it. Every time Steve or I ask you how you are feeling, I want you to think hard and then tell us something about your body. It doesn’t have to be something major. Tell me that you have brown hair, or what you last ate, or that you cut your fingernails yesterday. It can be anything. But if you are in pain then this is a good time to let us know. We might be able to help you fix it. Later, maybe, when you get more comfortable, you can tell us any emotions you have experienced. If something has made you angry, perhaps, or if you are scared. I know this is a lot to take in. Do you understand?”

The Asset considers for some time and then it shrugs.

“Okay, well, shall we demonstrate? I’ll practice first with Steve and then you can try.”

Dr Pedley turns towards Steve.

“Good morning, Steve. How are you feeling today?”

“Good morning,” says Steve. “My chest is hurting a bit from where I was shot last month. I am feeling a little anxious and sad.”

"Thank you for telling me that, Steve.” Dr Pedley looks back to the Asset. “Right, your turn. Tell me, how are you feeling today?”

The Asset considers. “Biosystems malfunction,” it says.

“That’s good,” praises Dr Pedley. “Very good. Can you give us a little more detail? What kind of malfunction?”

The Asset pauses for a long time. It tries to speak but the words are all messed up, stuck against the blockage of its tongue. James Barnes’ mouth just flaps about, uselessly.

“If you don’t want to speak out loud, that’s okay,” Dr Pedley says. “Do you remember the sign language that Agent Barton taught you? You can tell me using your hands, so you don’t need to worry about talking. Like this one-”

She sticks out two fingers end to end, twists them. That meant  _ hurt _ . 

The Asset imitates the motion, holding metal finger to flesh finger and twisting. 

“You are in pain? Yes? Well, I am sorry to hear that, Steve tells me you are healing well. Can you tell me where the pain is?”

The Asset is exhausted. This is exhausting. This talking, thinking, looking at people. But it has been given an order. The Asset brings its flesh hand slowly in and presses the heel in hard against the body’s aching belly.

“You have stomach pain?” Dr Pedley guesses.

The Asset nods. 

“Thank you for telling me,” Dr Pedley says. “You’ve done very well. I know it’s only been a short session but I can see you are tired, so unless there is anything else you want to talk about, I suggest we end it there today?”

The Asset stands up. It has been dismissed. 

Dr Pedley stands up too. “Steve is going to take you back to your apartment now and get you something to eat and some medicine to settle your stomach ache. I will see you again this time tomorrow.”

Steve takes him back to the apartment. There, he gives the Asset a small white tablet followed by water and then more pink stuff to drink. The pain and nausea fade away. The Asset lies down and when it reboots it is already dark again.

\---

“Яша,” the Asset says. The brain had continued to turn the problem of a name over and over while the Asset was in standby and, now with dreams and nightmares overflowing from its head like an overfull cup, the Asset is standing in front of Dr Pedley with a name pouring off its tongue.

“Yasha?” says Dr Pedley. She glances at Steve. “Is that someone you want to talk about? Or is that the name you’ve chosen?”

“They called me Яша,” Winter says. A distant memory shudders across its scrambled brain. A cluster of pitiless, eager eyes, watching. A soft voice, hard fists. Red hair. “The children. They beat them for it.”

“That doesn’t sound like a good memory,” Dr Pedley’s voice is even, unaffected. “Can you tell me anymore about that?”

“It was a secret,” Winter says. That makes it special and rare.

Dr Pedley pauses to see if the Asset will say more. It doesn’t. 

“Very well,” says the doctor. “Then I will call you Yasha. I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

That conversation, the blur of tattered images tossed about inside its head like leaves swirled about in a hurricane, and the enormity of the decision it has just made have sapped all of the Asset’s strength even more quickly than yesterday. They don’t do any more talking. Dr Pedley tells Steve to take it back to the apartment again and it sleeps for the rest of the day.

\---

“Good morning, Yasha. How are you feeling today?”

The Asset considers. “Cold,” It says. “I am cold.”

“All right,” Dr Pedley says. “I can help you with that. You can borrow a blanket off the back of the couch, if you like.”

“Yes. Please,” says Yasha. It takes the blanket that she points to. It is washed out red and heavy, heavier than the blue blanket Sam Wilson gave it before. It puts it around its shoulders and feels the weight anchor the Soldier into the ground.

“You can tell me if you’re cold, Buck,” says Steve. “You don’t have to wait to be asked.”

“Steve.” says Dr Pedley. 

“Sorry,” says Steve. “I’ll be quiet.”

“Is that everything you would like to tell me, Yasha?” says Dr Pedley. “Have you had something to eat today?”

“Yes.” It signs  _ drink _ .

“Very well. Now, I have a few pictures here. These are all people you have met before, but I know you have been having some problems with your memory so you might not be able to remember them. Would you like to see?”

The Asset doesn't want to see. It is not supposed to remember. But it is starting to work out the way these handlers and technicians give it orders, like they are questions, like it has a choice. There is no choice.

It looks at Dr Pedley’s hands. She holds up the first picture. It shows the head and wide shoulders of a black man, around 80kg, 1.80m tall, neat buzzed head and facial hair, green shirt and black jacket.

“Do you know who this is?”

“Sam Wilson,” the Asset confirms. “Unenhanced. I shredded his wing and kicked him off a roof. He specialises in surprise aerial attacks from a customised mechanised flight suit, tactical planning and firearms. He favours handguns and submachine guns, particularly Steyr SPPs. He is med-tech trained and has advanced hand-to-hand combat skills. He is a terrible Handler.”

“That’s...very comprehensive, thank you.” She sounds surprised. “Is there anything else?”

The Asset can’t recall anything of any further tactical use. Just in case the information is somehow pertinent, it adds:

“He calls me Winter. He said we were friends.”

Dr Pedley nods. “That’s good,” she says. “Okay, how about this picture?”

The next picture shows the mech tech Tony Stark. The Asset mentions the robotic suit whose full capabilities it does not yet know, the man’s apparently inexhaustible resources and the experiments with the arm.

The picture after that shows the Asset’s last mission; Natalia Romanova. She is Red Room, KGB, SHIELD. She is a formidable foe, almost unparalleled in her use of gymnastic and acrobatic strikes and throws during hand-to-hand combat. She uses guns, grenades, knives and utilises an array of technology to her advantage, such as miniaturised EMPs and wrist-mounted tasers. She can operate multiple vehicles and vessels and is highly skilled at deep cover infiltration. 

“Okay,” says Dr Pedley. “That’s enough, Yasha. How about these?”

She shows it six faces then that it doesn’t quite remember; two nondescript women and a red-headed man, a dark haired man in a purple shirt, a short bald man in a suit with dark skin and large gold-framed glasses, and a blond man in body armour that the Soldier thinks might be the STRIKE Commander that had given him the new comms training. Then she shows the Asset a picture of Captain America. 

“Steve,” Yasha says and the meat hand reaches for the picture before it can intervene. Dr Pedley lets the Soldier take it. The Asset doesn’t volunteer any further information about Steve. He is sitting right here on the couch after all. If Dr Pedley wants a mission report she can ask him directly. 

He grips the picture tightly while she holds up the next face. 

“Secretary Pierce,” Yasha identifies. “They said he is dead.”

The next pictures are Dr Patel, then Evangeline and Ricardo the medical technicians, then Field Handler Rumlow. The Asset pauses his recounting of Field Handler Rumlow’s tactical characteristics to ask:

“Is Field Handler Rumlow dead?”

“I am not sure, Yasha. I can ask for you if you like. Would you feel happy or sad to hear that he is dead?”

The Asset does not know. “He gave me something once,” it says. “Hot chocolate.”

“Did you like it?”

“Yes,” The Asset decides, and then, by way of explanation for the breach in handling protocol, adds: “Three STRIKE agents held a stun baton against my neck for 10 minutes, to see what would happen. I had a seizure. I wasn’t to tell the technicians.”

Steve makes a sort of choking noise then and there is a crunching sound. Dr Pedley says “Steve,” and sounds quite angry. 

Steve says “Sorry,” though his voice sounds tight and odd and not at all sorry. He goes quiet again. 

Dr Pedley writes something down. She brings out the next picture. It is black and white, old. It shows a woman with loose brown curls and dark lips, army uniform, gazing into the distance. The Soldier does not remember her. The dark haired man in the next picture with the small moustache is slightly familiar, but the Asset doesn’t know why. It looks at the picture for a long time but nothing becomes clearer. 

The next set of pictures are largely unmemorable images of men in suits or uniforms, women in lab coats or armour. Colour and monochrome, SHIELD personnel, or army, or HYDRA. Dr Pedley spreads them out for the Asset to see. None of them hold any significance to the Asset. It picks out another picture of Steve, short and bony, from the pile but leaves the rest of the pictures on the floor.

The Asset hopes they are nearly finished. It is getting tired. 

“All right, Yasha,” Dr Pedley says. “We are nearly done. There are just a few more pictures I want you to look at. Ready?”

They don’t make it to the other pictures because Dr Pedley shows the Asset the next photo and it looks into a round, lined, unassuming little face with tufts of wispy hair, circular wire glasses over a downturned mouth. Grey lab coat. Bowtie. Fat little hands in black rubber gloves brushing against crawling skin, the scratch of a needle, a wildfire burn rushing through veins. Awful, horrible sounds; buzzsaws, machines. Screaming, endless screaming, sometimes deafening music, sometimes a single drip of water in the silence, over and over, and  _ can’t someone just shut the fucking tap off? Please, I’m beggin’ you here... _

Vibration as they start to cut into the flesh, but no pain, not yet; in seconds the nerves will catch up and the agony will sear through him but right now it is just the vibration and the sickening knowledge that the pain is coming, overpowered by the stench of burnt blood and bone and 

‘ _ The procedure has already started’ _

and

_ 'Es tut mir leid zu sagen dass das Transplantat abgelehnt wird’ _

and

“...can you hear me?”

_ ‘shock him again, until he learns, _ ’ 

and 

“...try to get him lying down...”

_ ‘Please, just stop, stop, I’ll do anything, please...’ _

“...careful...Yasha, please...”

Acid in his throat, blood in his mouth; a head full of gaping rends and terror, like incipient metal sherds, grinding its way into a brain burnt out like rusted metal. 

Its mouth opens. “...32...”

“...What is he saying...?”

“...557...”

“...hear me?”

“...0...” 

“ _ Please _ , Bucky. Just stop.”

\---

It is session four, and if these are training exercises, Yasha still doesn’t know what it is meant to be learning. Or perhaps they are merely testing its compliance. It feels raw today, like torn skin; the bright overhead lights scouring its eyes, memories shredding across its mind like the brain is a cheesegrater. After the unsanctioned shutdown yesterday, the night had been shattered by images of awful things and today it can hardly speak at all, words clogging up its tongue and flowing back down its throat like an oil slick. 

The Soldier doesn’t know why Steve keeps bringing it here when it is clearly incapable of managing this task. Steve is a goddamn  _ idiot.  _ Dr Pedley had made Steve stay outside today. She thinks he is an idiot too.

“The first day that we met, Yasha,” Dr Pedley is saying. “We talked about Sergeant James Barnes. Do you remember? You said ‘You  _ can’t  _ call me that’. Not ‘I don’t want you to’. Can you explain what you meant? Who was it who told you that you can’t?”

“Can’t.” Yasha manages to say. “He is unstable. Erratic. Hаказание, P...punishment.” 

The Asset puts its face behind its arms. She’s sitting too close. He scoots back a few metres.

“I am not sure what you’re trying to tell me, Yasha, but no-one is going to punish you. Or me, for that matter. We can talk about James Barnes, or any topic you want to here, as much as we like. Do you know who he is?”

"Er war ein schlechter Mensch und er ist tot."

“I’m sorry. I don’t know any German.”

“JARVIS.” Yasha instructs, from behind the shelter of its hands.

“JARVIS isn’t going to translate, Yasha. No-one else is listening in on our sessions. Anything you want to talk about here is private, it’s just between the two of us. That is why I asked Steve to wait outside today. I thought you might be more comfortable speaking in front of just me.”

The Asset shifts uncomfortably and stares at the floor.

“So can you tell me about James Barnes again?” Dr Pedley says. “In English?”

The Asset takes its hands away from its mouth, holds them out, one palm up and one down. It flips them over, once.

Dr Pedley consults a chart.

“Was that the word ‘dead’? Are you saying that Sergeant Barnes is dead?”

Nod.

“Why do you say that?”

"Es ist die Wahrheit. Er war böse."

“Yasha. You need to talk in English.”

The Asset stands up and walks across the office to the door. Dr Pedley calls out “Yasha?” again but the Asset doesn’t respond. It opens the door and Steve is sitting on a chair outside in the corridor. He looks up, startled.

“Bucky? Is something wrong, are you okay?”

The Asset holds both forefingers either side of its mouth and waggles the hands. It raises a hand to the side of the face like holding a cell phone. Then it waits.

“You want to...phone someone?”

The Asset shakes his head. It puts its mismatched thumbs together, forefingers extended, and then draws its hands apart. It makes the cell phone motion again and waits.

Steve’s eyebrows are drawn up, mouth open. He looks bewildered. 

“I don’t know what that means, Buck. Uh, JARVIS? Some help?”

_ “Sergeant Barnes just made the ASL signs for ‘talk’, ‘cell phone’ and ‘language’, Captain.” _

“Wait, those weren’t on Clint’s list. How did...”

_ “I have been assisting Sergeant Barnes with some additional signs, at his request,” _ says JARVIS.

Steve’s eyebrow goes up but he just says “Okay. You having some trouble talking today, pal?”

Nod.

“...you want to use the translation app?”

Nod.

Steve grins, wild and delighted. He pulls the cell phone out of his pocket, touches the screen and then holds it out. The Soldier hesitates.

“Take it, Bucky. It’s okay.”

The Soldier takes the device. The voice translation application is running on the screen. The Soldier turns away from Steve back into the room, closing the door softly behind it. Dr Pedley is still waiting so it sits down on the floor again and holds up the phone.

Dr Pedley peers over at the screen. “Voice translation? That’s very good problem solving, well done,” she says, like it is an idiot child. When the Asset doesn’t do anything further, she says:

“Do you think you can tell me about Sergeant Barnes now?

The Asset repeats the authorised response into the handset and then puts it on the floor, sliding the device over towards the doctor.

Dr Pedley studies the screen. “I see. Can you tell me why you think that Sergeant Barnes is a bad person?”

Dumb question. It doesn’t  _ think _ , it knows. Knows what Barnes did. Lived it. The Asset can’t figure out how to say that though, so it just shrugs.

Dr Pedley is still waiting though and it has to answer.

“Killed,” it manages at last. “Killed people. He was a murderer.”

“Sergeant Barnes was a soldier, Yasha. He killed people as military action during warfare. That is very different to murder.”

The Asset scowls. Dr Pedley is an idiot too.

“Okay, Yasha. Last time you came to see me, we looked at some pictures together. Do you remember that?”

The Asset stiffens. Remembers the howling in its blood, the endless screech of metal, flames and agony....

“Yasha. Yasha, it’s okay. Listen to my voice, Yasha. That’s it. You’re all right. I took that picture away, it isn’t there anymore. Do you understand? You won’t see that photo again.”

The body slowly remembers how to breathe. The Asset shudders a little and then stills. It drops the hand away from its mouth and glances back towards the folder in Dr Pedley hands where the other photos are. There had been pictures of Steve, it recalls. Pictures of...

“I...” says the Asset and then stops.

“What is it, Yasha?”

The Asset shuts its mouth. It isn’t allowed to want things.

“You’re looking at the folder. Do you want to see the other pictures again?”

The Asset nods and Dr Pedley takes out the photos, the safe ones, and spreads them out on the floor. The Asset studies them in silence for some time but doesn’t say anything. It has already given all intel of relevance and now it is looking for...something else. The flesh fingers brush over the photo of Steve. But minutes go by and it doesn’t know what it is hoping for. Eventually Dr Pedley picks up all the photos and puts them away in the folder where the Asset can’t see them. It is resigned to their loss.

“Now, Yasha,” says Dr Pedley. She is smiling a lot now. Too much. “There are a few more pictures I’d like to show you.”

First is a colour photo of a small woman with pale hair. It is a bad likeness but there are enough similarities for the Soldier to identify it.

"That is Dr Emma Pedley," the Asset says, glancing at her for confirmation. "You. Before you were old."

The doctor laughs. 

"That's not polite, Yasha, but you are not wrong. What do you remember about me?"

The Asset doesn't roll its eyes. They haven't wiped it. Of course it remembers."You are a specialist doctor trained in helping people who have been through difficult events. You are not combat trained. You talk to me at 1000 hours every day."

She nods. "Good."

The next picture appears. It is another old formal photo, black and white, of a man with short dark hair, dressed in a military uniform and a hat. The Asset knows who that is.

“James Buchanan Barnes,” identifies the Soldier. “From the museum.”

Dr Pedley puts the picture face up on the floor between them and then puts down a second photo beside it. “And this?” she says. “Who is this a photo of?”

The Asset looks. It’s a grainier photo, a still from a CCTV image. There is a man with long dark hair dressed in black tactical gear, holding a gun. He has a metal arm.

“It is the Asset,” says the Asset. 

“That’s you?”

“Yes.”

“Last picture,” says Dr Pedley, “Can you identify this man?”

The photo shows a head and shoulders; a pale face, bruised and stubbled, with long, dark hair. Yasha can just see the edge of dark blue loose clothing, like hospital clothes. The eyes are shut. 

“That is James Buchanan Barnes,” decides Yasha, after a moment’s consideration.

Dr Pedley eyes widen a fraction, a sign that she is surprised. 

“Why do you say that, Yasha?”

The Asset points to the black and white photo of the man in uniform and then to the picture of the sleeping bruised man. The bone structure is identical.

“Same,” it explains. "Лицо."

“And you don’t think this is the same man too?” She is pointing to the picture of the Asset standing in the street.

The Asset stares and stares and doesn’t answer. Her question makes unease uncoil in its belly.

"Dieses Thema ist verboten."

“I am not trying to trick you,” Dr Pedley says. “No subjects are forbidden in this room. We can talk about whatever you want to talk about. But for now I just want to understand what you know about Sergeant Barnes. You told me before that he was dead. Can you tell me what happened to him?”

"Он был казнен."

The doctor looks at the phone again.

“How?”

“The Chair.”

“Why was he executed, Yasha?”

_ See the blood on your clothes? The knife in your hand?  _ The Asset twitches hard. Head pounds. This is too much. It should not be talking about James Barnes.

"Убийство. Mord. Er war ein schlechter Mensch"

“Yasha.” Dr Pedley holds up the photo of the sleeping man. “This picture that you said was of James Barnes. This is a photo of you. It was taken a week ago when you first came here to the tower.”

The Asset has nothing to say. It can feel the pulse pounding inside the skull, nausea coiling under its rib cage. These thoughts, these questions are bad bad bad.

Instead of speaking, Dr Pedley takes out a plastic mirror the size of a book from her bag. 

“Whose face do you see when you look in this mirror?” she says, holding it up. The Asset looks in and James Barnes’ face is looking back.

It has to swallow before it can speak and the voice comes out like a croak. “James Barnes,” it says.

The Asset rubs its eyes, presses a hand against the ache in its head. It is exhausted. It feels like they have been here for  _ hours. _ When will Steve come?

Dr Pedley sits back, slowly. “Can you follow what I’m trying to show you here, Yasha? You keep identifying James Barnes from all these images, but that man is you.”

“No,” says the Asset, frustrated. Why doesn’t she understand? Why doesn’t she know this? “He is outside.”

“I don't understand, Yasha. Who is outside? Steve?”

“James Barnes is outside,” the Asset snaps. “But empty. Hollow. The Asset was made...put...put inside. Like the building. Like JARVIS.”

Dr Pedley opens her mouth to ask another question, but the Soldier is done. It curls over its knees, puts its hands over its ears and closes its eyes. If it ignores her long enough, she will either punish it or go away. She might even fetch Steve.

She talks to the top of its head for fifteen minutes. Then she goes quiet and fetches Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another fun one. I enjoyed writing this one a lot!


	11. Sam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta read by [theAsh0](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theAsh0/pseuds/theAsh0).
> 
> Sam's back!

The first thing Sam does on arriving back at Stark Tower is make his way up to Tony Stark’s workshop. It’s pretty satisfying to watch Stark almost jump out of his skin when Sam stands behind him and says “Hey.” 

“Christ!” Stark yelps, wheeling around, grabbing his chest. “I’ve just had heart surgery, you know, can’t you warn a guy?”

Sam shrugs, trying not to smile. “Sorry, man. Thought you’d heard me come in.”

“Aren’t you somewhere else right now, New Guy, like Pennsylvania? And JARVIS, FYI - this is meant to be a _secure_ lab.”

“Miss Potts instructed me to let Mr Wilson in, Sir,” says the AI, somehow sounding reproachful.

“And it was Crystal City actually, said Sam, “but I’m back. Bought you a gift. Kind of a bribe.”

“Ooh!” Suddenly Stark is interested. He peers around Sam and makes grabby hands. “Give, give, give...”

Sam heaves the flight pack and the solitary surviving wing onto the workbench as Stark shoves a bunch of valuable-looking equipment aside to make space. Stark’s face falls when he sees what’s left of Sam’s wings.

“Oh baby,” Stark murmurs, turning the wing over. “What did they do to you?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “’Scuse me, I was falling out of the sky at the time. Believe me, I would have been more gentle if I could.”

“Oh, I wasn’t talking about you. USAF’s so-called R&D are a goddamn menace. Quite clearly had no idea what they’ve done to my little beauty.”

“Wait, you built these?”

“I designed the first model. What, you thought the military came up with this on their own? Please. Well, I mean it _looks_ like my work...reasonably sure I remember this. It must have been 2002, not a great year for me, had a few issues, and then there was the new military contracts; apparently they don’t like it when they award you a lucrative billion-dollar weapons contract and you maybe go off to Malibu for a few weeks and forget to hand over any guns before you go. Yeah, I do remember; Rhodey tracked me down and was giving me grief so I threw the EXO-1 specs together after a party at Leo's...”

“You’re saying you designed the entire rig? In one night? _On a bender?_ ”

“Well,” says Tony, “it was probably more like three hours than a whole night as I’m pretty sure I went straight to another party after that. But essentially, yeah. Never thought USAF would actually ever build it.”

“You designed my wings on a bender,” Sam repeats, still slightly stuck on this point. 

“Yeah, well. Genius, remember?” Tony says. “Just count yourself lucky the rig didn’t blow up.”

“The EXO-1 _did_ ,” Sam points out. “They told us that as a warning when we signed up.”

“Did they tell you they used Hammertech for the flight stabilisers too?” Tony scoffs. He’s produced a screwdriver from somewhere and has prised the back of the flight pack off. He levers some component loose and tosses it over his shoulder. “Poor baby.” And then to Sam, he adds: “Those wings are twice as heavy as they should be, half as flexible... It’s amazing you’re still alive.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” mutters Sam. And then louder, says: “I brought this too, if it helps. There’s a few additional notes in there.”

Stark is still peering into the rig and makes no move to take the EXO-7 folder so Sam just drops it onto the workbench. Tony snatches it up and gives it a cursory glance through. 

“Hmph,” he mutters before tossing it back down. “Cretins.”

“Something wrong?” Sam asks, trying not to sound hostile. He’s offended on behalf of his wing rig, for crying out loud.

“Well, let’s just say there’s no point salvaging much of this,” Tony says, poking around inside the trashed rig with an affectation of disdain. “I _could_ go back to the original EXO-1 designs...see if an update or two might be in order. I’ve got some bales of carbon fibre going to waste in the warehouse, I guess I could throw something together. If you were thinking of hanging around, of course. I’d need someone to run some test flights...”

Sam manages not to roll his eyes. “Yes,” he answers. “I’m thinking of hanging around. For a while, at least. I promised Steve I’d help get Winter back on his feet, for one thing.”

If he hadn’t been looking for it, he would have missed the tic jump in Tony’s face.

“He’s just everyone’s favourite mass-murderer these days.” Stark mutters, and he grabs a nearby tablet and starts typing, loudly changing to subject. “So, how many times did you use the rig? Jumps, missions, whatever.”

“178 flights,” Sam says, “Training and combat.”

“Hmm...how did it cope with different atmospheric conditions?” Stark asks, holograms swirling about in the air above them. “Any recurrent problems, apart from the shitty banking?” 

“Pretty good, although grit in the bearings was a constant nightmare. We got caught in a sandstorm once over Kandahar; retraction on the right wing was never quite the same after that, even after they sonic cleaned it. Look, can I ask you something?”

“I’m told it’s pedantic to point out you just did.” Stark responds, not looking up.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, I’m not criticising. Just curious.” Sam says, keeping his tone mild. “But Barnes. The 'Winter Soldier'. You mind telling me why you hate him so much?”

Tony tosses the tablet onto the bench and folds his arms. “What’s this, Wilson, Steve not enough for you? Trying to get _me_ to talk about my feelings now, too? So okay, let me ask you this instead. It's an undeniable fact that this buddy of Steve’s murdered dozens of people. Maybe hundreds. Children. Whole families. And I’ve been piecing things together and I can tell you, not all of those kills were clean executions from some distant rooftop either. Some of them were made to suffer. Good people opposing HYDRA, standing up Nazi bullshit, trying to make this shithole world a better place, were tortured. _Slaughtered_ . By him. So I guess my question isn’t ‘why do I hate him’, but _‘why don’t you?’_ _”_

“I hate what he did,” Sam answers, cautiously. “And I can’t say I really like the guy; truth be told I’m not sure there’s enough of a person left in there for that. But I can’t hold him accountable for what HYDRA made him do. I don’t know, guess I’ve started to see him through Steve’s eyes.”

“He tried to kill Steve,” Stark pointed out. “On multiple occasions. The _star-spangled moron with a death_ wish hardly has the best self-preservation instincts. And don’t forget Barnes tried to kill you too, once or twice.”

“Four times,” Sam says. “Six, if you count the times he almost cut my throat and then he held a gun to my head for trying to take Steve to the hospital. And even then that’s counting the entire thing with the car and the DC overpass as one.”

“You all have a serious problem, you know that? Christ, I thought you were a therapist.” 

“A councillor, actually,” says Sam, but he doesn’t add anything. Stark has more to say and Sam wants to hear it. If they’re going to get through this, they need Stark, his brain and his resources and if Sam can’t get him on their side this is going to end in catastrophe.

Stark fiddles with a screwdriver on the bench for a second before he suddenly spins back around.

“Point is, he should have stopped.” Stark snaps. “Barnes. Yeah, I know now that he didn’t actually defect or whatever, that the Reds captured and tortured him, treated him like shit. Cut his arm off and jammed that weapon there instead, but when they pointed him at some innocent and said “Kill that guy,” _he should have stopped._ He should have let them kill him rather than do what they wanted. The fact that he's alive shows that he gave in.”

“He probably did stop,” Sam says quietly. “The first ten, twenty, fifty times. Fought back with everything he had, for years, until there wasn’t a single thing left to fight for. They took it all away, Stark.”

“You’re talking about this ‘brainwashing’ Steve keeps going on about? Despite what the movies tell you, there’s no scientific evidence that's even possible.”

“You told Steve there was no scientific evidence that the arm could exist either,” Sam points out. “And you said it yourself, Barnes tried to _kill Steve_. You must’ve seen the old Howling Commandos movies from the 40s, right? I mean, they’ve run that documentary every Veteran’s Day for a decade. The depression, Brooklyn, the war. The whole nine yards. The way James Barnes, the way all of them, looked at Steve like he was their saviour. Their entire world. Can you imagine what it would take for Barnes to turn on him? Actually try to kill him?”

“People change,” says Stark. “They go through shit and it changes them, or you suddenly find out that someone you thought was there for you your whole life was just waiting for you to fuck up so they could have you kidnapped and murdered for your money.”

Sam had forgotten that part of Stark’s history. He changes tack. “Did you read the Kiev file?”

“No, ‘cause I have about a zettabyte of HYDRA data to read right now. Besides, Steve only deigned to hand over the sections relevant to the prosthetic.”

Given Stark’s experiences in Afghanistan, Sam can understand why Steve censored the file before he handed it over. Still, they need Tony, so it’s time for a little exposé. 

“Well, the rest of the pages describe something about what they did to him. Believe me, we’re not talking look-at-the-shiny-watch-and-sing-like-Elvis hypnosis here. They systematically electroshocked him, for years. They fried him so many times I don’t know how he could even walk at the end of it. Then, somehow, they put these words into his head that switch his free will on and off like a machine. I wouldn’t have believed it either if I hadn’t seen it, but that’s what happened when they blitzed us in Minnesota. The HYDRA handler said those words and he just...reset.”

“While I was messing about with the arm,” says Tony, after a long pause, “Banner and I, uh, did a scan of his brain. There were dead areas in there, I assumed, from the cryogenics. Maybe it wasn’t. But electrocution is far too random. They’d have to control it somehow; they did claim to be scientists, after all. You’d have to be able to control the conditions, get repeat results.”

Sam nods, although the information that they had found permanent brain damage is all new and freshly horrible to him – Steve hadn’t mentioned it in his phone-calls. “There’s a few brief descriptions in the file to a calibration unit,” Sam says. “Some sort of machine they used to “wipe” him. We haven’t found out anything else yet.”

Stark is looking thoughtful again, regaining his composure now there is a puzzle to solve. “So far the bases Hill has had her people raiding have all turned up empty. But if she finds one of those machines I want it. J-man, make a note.”

 _“I will inform Director Hill that, as usual, you want to be the first to know about everything_ ,” says JARVIS from above them.

Sam quirks an eyebrow at the exchange. “That would be a good start. But listen. What I’m trying to say boils down to this. The man that used to be Bucky Barnes...HYDRA _destroyed_ him. I know we’re all only starting to get the faintest glimpses of what precisely that involved and it’s...unimaginably awful. The levels of abuse...It’s like those news stories you hear about dogs. Rottweilers that go crazy, attack people, bite kids...and then you hear afterwards about the owners. The dogs have been starved, beaten...No animal is that vicious unless it’s done to them first.”

“Interesting comparison,” Stark says, turning back to face him. “Especially when you consider what happens to dogs that bite people. They get put down.”

Sam sighs, and looks away. “Yeah. You’re right. I know that. He’s dangerous, unstable, and Steve knows it too, whether he wants to admit it or not. Hell, three weeks ago, I was telling Steve exactly what you’re telling me. That Barnes was one of the ones that should be stopped, not saved. But Barnes used to be one of the good guys, and when you get right down to it, he never asked for this. I’ve seen it myself that he’s trying so damn hard to find anything good out of the fucking mess HYDRA left behind in his brain, and yes, I know that this world isn’t one that gives out medals for effort. But I just think he deserves the chance to try. Hell knows, all the rest of us seem to have got our second chances.”

Stark gives him a tired stare.

“Fine. Whatever. Nice speech, Jiminy Cricket. He’s here now, and he can stay for as long as we can keep him out of the hands of counterterrorism or the secret service. And for as long as he’s, you know, not killing anyone.”

“Most secure building in the world,” Sam says.

“Sure is,” says Tony. “Anyway. To the important stuff. You want lasers on your new wings? I can do lasers. And have you thought about the paint job?”

“I was thinking red,” says Sam, without hesitation. He’s thought about it a lot. His wings are going to look _awesome._

Stark grins. “Good man. I was worried you were going to ask for ‘Captain America blue’. Maybe we can be friends after all.”

\---

Sam leaves Stark to his tinkering and heads on up to the 92nd floor. He fires off a text to Steve as he steps into the elevator and Steve replies pretty much immediately; they’re down at Bucky’s daily medical and then he’s got his session with Dr Pedley after so they’ll be another hour at least. Sam should let himself in.

Sam isn’t sure whether to be gratified or nervous that his retinal pattern is instantly accepted at the door to Steve’s floor. The apartment has an odd feel to it. It’s still decorated like the Captain America-themed show home it was last week, lacking the personal touches of a long-term dwelling, but there are clear signs of recent hurried occupation; blankets strewn on the sofa, a few unwashed dishes on the table and jars of applesauce and food-substitute formula all over the side in the kitchen. It looks like Steve’s natural untidiness is starting to creep back through the military-learned discipline the more tired he gets.

Sam finds a bedroom further off down the hall that looks unoccupied and dumps the small duffel bag of stuff he brought with him onto the bed. He can have the rest of his stuff shipped over once he’s had a talk with Steve and he’s figured out if this is really going to work. Sam decides Steve would have put Bucky in the room closest to his own and, as he’s walking past, Sam sees that the door is open. He tried to convince himself it’s not snooping to have a quick look inside. He is going to be spending a lot of time with this guy, getting inside his head. Seeing how he organises his own space could be an interesting psychological tell.

He isn’t sure what he’s expecting – not blood splattered floors or psychotic delusions scrawled all over the walls - but the sight that greets his eyes might be just as unnerving. The room is spotless. In fact, it looks just like the unlived-in room that Sam has just claimed. The shelves are empty, cupboards closed. The bed is made with a rigorous neatness that says maid rather than military. The faintest depression in the centre suggests someone might have lain down on top of the blankets, but there’s no way anyone has slept in it. The only signs of life at all are the single toothbrush in the bathroom cabinet, an open bottle of unscented liquid soap in the shower, and a precise, perfect line of oddities on the bedside cabinet that Sam recognises as the few items he gave Barnes to occupy his time when he was locked up in the panic room.

Frowning, Sam withdraws, wondering what to make of it all. 

He’s unpacked some of his stuff, eaten a cold burrito he found in the fridge and is figuring out how the behemoth coffee machine works when there’s the sound of the front door closing and voices in the hall. 

“...just down here,” Steve is saying. “First left.” Sam comes to the kitchen doorway just as Emma Pedley enters the lounge, followed after a moment or two by Winter and then Steve. The former is trailing slowly along, head low, as if he’s exhausted. Steve is ushering him into the room, careful not to touch him. 

“Hey,” Sam greets them from the doorway.

Winter stops walking but he doesn’t raise his head or acknowledge Sam at all. In contrast, Steve’s tired face lights up like fucking Christmas at the sight of Sam, and damn it feels good that someone is that pleased to see him, even if it makes Steve look like an oversized golden retriever.

“Sam! You’re back.”

“Sergeant Wilson,” Dr Pedley nods and holds out her hand. “Good to see you again.” Sam shakes it, wondering what she’s doing there. As far as he knew, all of Winter’s therapy sessions were taking place in her office downstairs. Maybe she has to review his living space too as part of her assessment.

“Not a sergeant anymore,” he adds. “Just Sam.” 

“Of course.”

Sam turns and takes a careful step closer to Barnes. “Hey Winter. Remember me?”

Winter twitches a little as if he’s about to move away, but he doesn’t. Sam can definitely see improvement in the man from last week. The metal arm is out of its sling and he is no longer wearing hospital scrubs – there’s black sweatpants, a navy Stark Industries hoodie and socks (no shoes). He’s still pale, but is starting to look just thin now rather than starved and feral, and the bruises and scrapes which had adorned his face before have faded out. More than that though, and even though he hasn’t moved or spoken, there’s a level of awareness about Barnes now that was missing in the panic room. Despite his averted gaze and hanging head, he seems more present, more alert. Perhaps he’s less afraid.

“How are you doing, man?” Sam asks, softly.

To his surprise, his question is actually answered with a quick flicker of the eyes and then Winter tucks the hardback notebook he’s carrying under his arm, curls both hands in against his chest and then folds them down, in a slow, deliberate motion.

“He said that he’s tired.” Steve says, translating, smiling. “Well done, Bucky.”

“Yeah, man. I’m not surprised,” says Sam, thinking of the chart he had seen tacked up on the fridge. It’s a timetable of the month, listing Bucky’s daily appointments, medications, and food schedule. Steve has recorded, in tiny letters, when Bucky has been eating and sleeping too, and he’s apparently been out for fourteen or sixteen hours every day. “You’re recovering and that uses a lot of energy. It’s good to see you, buddy.”

Winter doesn’t say anything in response. He finally moves only when Steve tells Bucky he should sit down. The man obeys but, as usual, he bypasses the couch and slumps into a corner. His weird aversion to chairs hasn’t changed then, at least.

Emma Pedley glances at Sam, brightly.

“Did you have a good trip, Sam?”

Sam nods. “Yeah, caught up with family, ate too much. Usual. How have things been here?”

“Oh, we’re getting settled,” she answers, evasively, glancing at Steve. “One or two hiccups but that’s to be expected at this stage.”

Sam wants to ask what she’s doing there, but he can’t, not while Winter is still sitting nearby. 

“I made myself at home,” Sam says, waving his steaming coffee mug at the pair of them. “Anyone want a coffee? Think I’ve figured out where most things are except for teaspoons. Seriously, Steve, who keeps their teaspoons in a different drawer to dessert spoons?

” I do,” Steve says, opening a cupboard and pointing. “They’re for different things.”

“You are so weird.”

Pedley and Sam drink coffee and chat idly about the weather and baseball and the cost of gas while Steve mixes up a sports bottle of gross-looking pink smoothie mix that comprises Winter’s current diet. Sam gets a whiff of it as Steve carries it past. 

“Oh my God, that smells awful.” 

Steve shoots him a look and puts the bottle down by Barnes’ knee with a “There you go, pal.” Barnes picks it up after a momentary hesitation and starts to drink, slowly.

“I know it doesn’t taste great,” Steve continues, more for Sam’s benefit than Barnes’. “But it’s very nutritious.”

“Yeah, no doubt, but does it have to smell like someone boiled up cough syrup inside a three-week-old sock?” 

Barnes makes a sound. He’s hunched forwards and he’s holding the bottle in front of his face but Sam would swear in the glance that he got that the corners of Winter’s mouth were turned up.

He’s smiling.

Huh.

They talk about not much for a few minutes beforeWinter eventually finishes the drink and a bottle of water. Dr Pedley turns to him. 

“Yasha, I need to speak to Steve and Sam for a minute. You look very tired today; perhaps you’d like to go and get some rest while we talk?”

Steve nods, crouching down by Barnes’ feet.

“The doc’s right, buddy, you look exhausted. Come on, nap time. Sam will still be here when you wake up.”

“Я готов отвечать,” Winter says, and he stands up and follows Steve back out into the hall. He glances at Sam once on the way past but if there was ever a smile there, it’s gone now.

“So, Doc,” Sam says, quietly, once they’ve gone. “How is he doing? He seems pretty beat, and it’s not even midday.”

She sighs a little and pulls a few folders of paper out of her bag. It looks like this is an official meeting then. “We’re essentially trying to rewrite his brain,” she says. “It will be very tiring, I’m afraid, and he is still under sedation. Better let him sleep as much as he can now before the worst of the nightmares start to kick in.”

Sam nods. He knows all about that. “So, he _is_ making progress then. I mean, nightmares are linked to traumatic memory and so if he’s starting to dream about it then that means his memories are coming back...?”

“It’s hard to tell how much he recalls,” she says, cagily. “But yes, I’ve been seeing him every day for the last week and, given everything that we know he has been through, I have to say he has made quite astonishing progress, physically and mentally. He’s remarkably resilient.”

“You should have seen him when we first took him into custody,” says Sam. 

Pedley nods. “Well, it’s clear you’ve made quite the impression on him, Sam. I haven’t seen him smile before at anyone who isn’t Steve.”

Sam feels a swell of warmth in his chest. 

“Steve tells me you are staying here for a while?” When Sam nods, Pedley continues. “That’s good. Steve certainly will need the support. Incidentally, I have provided a list of other suitable therapists that he and you may wish to consider for your own wellbeing. Dealing with a psychiatric patient full-time is an extremely challenging role, particularly when the patient is a family member or close friend. There’s a high risk of carer fatigue, so please consider it. In the meantime, we may need to consider how Yasha will find having another person living in the apartment.”

“Yasha? Where’s that come from?”

“I pushed him to choose a name for himself if he didn’t want to be called James or Sergeant Barnes.” Pedley explains, “and Yasha is what he came up with. We have no idea why; it isn’t a name Steve knows. I looked it up – it’s a diminutive of _Yakov_ , the Russian form of James.”

“Is that coincidence?”

“I really don’t know,” she answers. 

A moment later Steve returns.

“He’s lying down,” Steve says, “but I’m not sure if he’s asleep or not. It’s a bit hit and miss sometimes, but he seems so tired all the time.”

“That’s a combination of the sedatives and the therapy, I’m afraid,” Pedley says. “The medications are still a work in progress – his physiology and metabolism are very unique and it’s going to take some time to come up with the right combination and dosage strengths that work for him. Also he is under a lot of stress right now. He has come from a place that in some ways was extremely simple. HYDRA gave him a rigid structure and precise rules. He knew precisely what he had to do, when he was told to. He had no choices and no need to think, only to respond according to set conditioned protocols. Any change from that, even positive change, is going to be extremely stressful and handling that all the time will be exhausting. Things will eventually improve but I’ll move our sessions to the afternoon for now, as often he’s too groggy in the mornings for us to make much progress.”

Steve readily agrees and then Pedley pulls out the first sheet of paper from the file.

“So Sam, as Steve knows I’ve been conducting a very preliminary psych evaluation over the past few days,” she says, “to try and get a very basic feel for Yasha’s condition and to determine an initial direction for treatment. This is the first time we’ve been able to all sit down together, so I’d like to go through with you what I’ve learned so far. I have observed signs which could between them indicate multiple conditions: c-PTSD, anxiety disorders, conditioned behaviours, retrograde amnesia, dissociation, flashbacks, and obsessive compulsive behavioural traits, although I have noted that so far he has shown no inclination to violent behaviour. However, though I just listed off all those conditions, his case is unique and extremely complex, and I think trying to force his symptoms to align with a recognised diagnosis is likely to be obstructive. It’s my opinion that we will have more success by treating symptomatically."

"All right," says Steve. He’s sitting on Sam’s right, his big hands gripping the coffee mug like it’s offended him. "So where do we start?"

"We'll get to that but first: do either of you know anything about brainwashing?”

“Stark said it was a myth,” Sam says. “But I’ve done some reading. And you get cults and stuff like that, and extremist groups...”

“I googled it,” Steve admits. “It’s something the communists were doing after the war. On POWs.”

Neither of them mention Natasha or the Red Room but Sam knows Steve’s thoughts have gone exactly to the same place as his.

“Allegedly, yes,” Pedley agrees. “You’re both more or less right. It’s a disputed term, but generally most psychologists admit that it could be possible under the right conditions, such as in certain religious cults. However, there has never been a recorded case of thought reform, or brainwashing, as extensive as this. It would require isolation, deprivation, torture and a lot of time, all of which we know Yasha’s captors used. Tell me, have either of you heard him expressing the idea that James Barnes is dead, or in some way 'bad' or 'evil?"

Sam and Steve exchange uneasy glances but nod in agreement. 

"As far as I can follow, Yasha has been led to believe that Sergeant Barnes was an American murderer who was captured and executed in Germany in the late 1940s. Now that in some ways fits with the classic theories on brainwashing that were developed after the war: the early stages comprise the deconstruction of personhood through an assault on pre-held notions of identity, the implication of guilt, acceptance of that guilt and, eventually, a complete breakdown of the self. Now, later stages of the process offer salvation in the form of a construction of new identity – cessation of the physical torture while aligning the target with new values that now seem righteous to provide absolution. However, I can’t see any evidence that these later stages were implemented because, in Yasha’s case, the loss of identity seems to have escalated into a complete and abiding depersonalisation. There is no indication that he has been indoctrinated to believe the HYDRA mythos or has adopted his own new values or morality. Full brainwashing requires a sense of emotional release and absolution – he has been left with almost no independent thought at all. He can only obey orders.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, rubbing his head. “I don’t entirely follow.”

“He’s been _half_ brainwashed?” Sam suggests.

"You could say that, yes. But in essence,” Pedley summarises, “Yasha has been left with a severe disconnect between his consciousness and his recognition of his own body. It’s quite astonishing. Yasha has not lost those memories; he knows that Sergeant Barnes existed and what he looked like. He has identified Barnes from past and recent photographs, and, more importantly, once also from a mirror." 

"Then how can he keep saying he's dead?" Steve asks, frustration and tiredness heavy in his voice. "It doesn't make any sense."

"Perhaps it would be more accurate for me to say that the consciousness currently inhabiting James' body does not recognise itself as being James Barnes." 

Steve just looks blank and sort of horrified but Sam has a slow sinking feeling in his gut. "Wait, are we talking about some kind of Dissociative Identity Disorder? One psyche splitting into multiple distinct personalities? He’s talking in different languages and we’ve all been using different names: Winter, Bucky, Yasha...Are they different _people_?" 

Sam is more than relieved when Pedley shakes her head.

"I don't believe it is quite as clear cut as that. Certainly I have seen no evidence so far of more than one personality or consciousness, albeit one that has been severely damaged. Those episodes where Yasha seems more aware or more like his old self might well be due to his brain constructing random connections out of fragments of memory than true personality. The use of multiple names, I’m afraid, is more likely a lack of consistency on our part, tied into Yasha’s confusion over how to self identify when we have made it clear we don’t want him to consider himself as an object any more. And this is the key issue here: apart from his willingness to accept Steve calling him Bucky, he does not seem to be able to tolerate any association with his former identity. I believe that this is because, as far as Yasha is concerned, he _is_ someone else. He explained to me that they had 'taken Barnes out' and put him in. He told me that he was like JARVIS; an artificial consciousness which has been inserted into a pre-existing superstructure. In JARVIS's case, a building. In Yasha's case, a dead body." 

“He thinks he’s an AI,” Sam says, understanding dawning. It actually makes a lot of sense. All of that _ready to comply, biological and mechanical malfunction_ stuff. That’s his programming, and not just in a controlled behaviour sort of way. Actual computer programming. 

Those bastards actually made Barnes think he was a machine.

"He remembered," Steve says, white faced. "He remembered me, playing cards in the war, reading the newspaper. He is real, he remembers. How can he think that he..."

"Leftover fragments of electrical data in the synapses," says Pedley. "Cruft accumulation. Redundant code. When it comes to his residual memories, there are many possible explanations Yasha may have been given that would fit within his new world view. As far as he knows that's why they wiped him so often, to clear out the old "code", to stop the program getting overrun by echoes of James Barnes, old memories that were left behind after the former ‘user’ of the body had died."

Steve looks like he's going to cry and Sam has to ask the question even though there's a good chance it might actually push Steve over that edge. "I don't suppose there's any chance that he's right?"

 _“Jesus_ , Sam...” Steve mutters, putting his face in his hands.

Pedley sighs, but then offers Sam an encouraging smile. "No. As far as we know - as far as Stark or SHIELD or anyone on our side knows - there is no way yet to integrate an artificial consciousness into a biological body, whether that body is alive or dead. That’s why Arnim Zola was trapped inside those old computers; it was the only way to house his consciousness. It _couldn’t_ be put into a new body. Plus, it would be completely impossible for an AI to turn on his programmers the way Barnes did back at the cabin. JARVIS, for instance, is an incredible creation but he isn't truly a consciousness. He can still only do as instructed. Something is operating James Barnes’ flesh and bones and it can only be the person that used to be James Barnes, even if he himself has forgotten that.

“There is some good news. If this result, his belief that his consciousness is an AI or a programme, was part of the psychological conditioning that HYDRA used to keep Yasha under their control, it has also acted as a defence mechanism that protected his mind. Machines, after all, don't feel pain or fear - those are just the by-products of chemicals in the human body, to be ignored, disregarded. A machine will follow instructions precisely and won't make mistakes that in turn require punishment. Machines have no independent thought, no choices; they obey and feel no remorse. He could distance himself from what was done to him and, more importantly, from what he was forced to do. HYDRA disconnected his mind so that they could control him better, but it probably helped him survive."

"How do we fix it?" Steve says. He's looking shaken but not defeated. " _Can_ we fix it?"

"I am hesitant to make predictions in a case such as this, but I do think there is a good chance that we will be able to work through the depersonalisation and he will be forced to confront the reality of his identity, particularly as his memories gradually begin to stabilize. I'll do everything I can to facilitate that, and despite everything I can see that he's very quick - he's already starting to notice the discrepancies himself, even as broken down as he is right now. But you must be aware that, while I am confident Yasha can and will make progress over the coming months, there is no way to 'fix' this. I need you to have realistic expectations, Captain. Yasha will never be the person you remember, and the more you expect him to act that way, the more unhappy you both will be. The level of torture and degradation he's suffered, the effect of long term captivity and the violence he has perpetrated, let alone the unknown effects of the not insignificant brain damage, are going to have an impact on the extent to which rehabilitation and recovery are possible. He is going to make some progress over the next few months and years, and will suffer serious setbacks too, but you need to be ready for the fact that at some point we're going to reach a threshold for what recovery is possible."

"He's alive," said Steve, after a deep breath. Sam can see he's rattled from the sheer information overload, Sam is too. But Steve’s got his ass-kicking face on. He's ready to fight for this. "That's the main thing. We'll figure everything else out along the way."

Emma Pedley nods. "Good," she says. "We will. And one other thing I can tell you, which is an extremely positive sign for someone who has been involved in as much violence that Yasha has. There is no indication of impaired empathy. Yasha scored much higher than average on a test I gave him in which the subject has to identify emotion from images of facial expressions. I doubt that was a skill HYDRA would have programmed him with, so probably it’s one he developed for himself.” 

Steve is already nodding. “Bucky was always good at reading people. I was the one that resorted to fists first, he could charm his way out of anything. Later it was what made him such a good sergeant. He knew what was up with the guys half the time before they knew it themselves.”

“It probably is a residual skillset, yes, but that level of social cognition is also something which is often observed in kidnap victims and abused children who need to be able to quickly judge the moods of the adults around them in order to stay safe. I know that sounds negative, but it is in fact the opposite. If Yasha is capable of understanding and empathising with how other people are feeling, he is naturally going to be more careful to avoid causing hurt and is much less likely to resort to violence in the event of stress. Eventually he is going to start to recognise those emotions in himself too, which is all part of breaking down this ‘artificial person’ delusion.” 

The rest of the meeting turns to a more general discussion on how Sam and Steve can best act around Barnes in a way that complements Pedley’ work. The psychiatrist is going to continue her daily sessions and liaise with Dr Patel to review Barnes’ medications in light of the observed side effects and with the results of Banner’s investigations into his blood biochemistry. She is also going to send Barnes’ brain scans to a neurologist in Chicago to get his thoughts on the physical damage caused by the cryogenics and electroshock. Steve and Sam’s job will be to provide a low stress living environment and to continue to monitor Barnes’ injuries and to build up on his physical health. Routine is vital but Pedley suggests that they also start to introduce some elements of choice – a sweatshirt colour or drink or an activity - to get Barnes’ used to the concept of his own autonomy. They should also continue to keep grounding him back in his body by asking him how he’s feeling, or to describe something he’s just experienced.

Both men nod as they go through the list. It’s going to be difficult, and tiring for Barnes. But they’ll try. It is just as Sam thinks the meeting is drawing to an end that Pedley drops her last bombshell.

“There’s one last thing,” she says, leaning back slightly in her chair and watching them carefully. “I am going to make a recommendation to Director Hill that Sergeant Barnes should undergo his captivity debrief regarding HYDRA as soon as possible.”

Sam actually feels his mouth fall open. 

“What the _hell_?” says Steve. He sounds shocked. 

“I knew you would both have a strong reaction,” she says, calmly. “But you need to listen to my reasons...”

“You just listed an array of psychological conditions as long as my arm,” Sam says, folding his arms. “And you’re going to follow it up by saying Bucky is fit for interrogation?”

“I said ‘debrief’...” Pedley begins, but Steve cuts her off. He looks as angry as Sam feels.

“Don’t argue semantics, Doctor. Bucky can barely _talk_ and you’re proposing to hand him off to-“

“Captain, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me finish. If you’re still not convinced afterwards then we can debate it further. I’m his doctor; you know I have nothing but Yasha’s best interests at heart.”

Steve goes quiet, but Sam can see his fist is clenched under the table.

“It is precisely because of his psychological condition, specifically the profound disconnect James is suffering, that I am making this recommendation,” Pedley begins. “Any debrief by its very nature is going to require recollection of past events. Yasha seems to be missing large parts of his past but I have reason to believe he remembers more than he realises. The depersonalisation is going to make it both easier for him to answer questions and less damaging for him to relive some of those experiences – although he is often afraid, he has little concept, yet, of guilt. As he recovers he is going to find it more and more difficult to deal with the things he has done and we will only be able to talk through those memories in a much less threatening environment than in front of strangers.

“My next point is one that as soldiers you ought to appreciate – you are at war with HYDRA, a war in which your enemy is invisible and everywhere - you need every asset you can get. The Winter Soldier will have information on bases and personnel, and a lot of it is going to be time critical. Knowing what he knows could help Director Hill save a lot of lives, but only if she gets that information soon.

“My third reason is for the safety of Yasha himself. At the moment, we have no official right to hold him here – in fact, as the Winter Soldier is a wanted man after DC, we’re all guilty of harbouring a dangerous fugitive. No-one official knows yet that he’s here, but the moment that information breaks we’ll have the Secret Service, the army, Interpol, everyone up to and including the Men in Black hammering on the door, and unless Mr Stark is willing to start a war against the government there’s going to be very little any of us can do to prevent his arrest and detention. If the Winter Soldier can provide the right kind of information against HYDRA however, and Pepper’s lawyer Mr Boulos is good enough...I don’t know, perhaps he and Hill can make some kind of asylum deal on his behalf to keep him out of jail. If Yasha must be _interrogated_ , and I think it likely that he does, at the very least it will be done under conditions that we control, with us present.”

Steve shoots Sam a stricken glance.

“I don’t like it,” Sam says, sitting back. “I’m sorry, but it’s not right. He’s exhausted, drugged, mentally incompetent and in chronic pain. It’s not ethical to question someone under those conditions, however you spin it.”

“I don’t like it either,” Pedley says. “Believe me. But better now than in five months, and better here than a cell in Guantánamo Bay. I think he can cope.”

“I’m not sure _‘I think’_ is good enough,” Steve says, but there’s no heat in his words.

“I can accept that,” Pedley says. “And neither of you are wrong, but I am still going to make my recommendation to Maria Hill tomorrow. It’s what I consider to have the most long term benefit for my patient.”

“If we can stop him being arrested and thrown into a supermax detention facility for the rest of his life.”

“If.”


	12. Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta read by [theAsh0](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theAsh0/pseuds/theAsh0).

In two days time, the Winter Soldier – Fist of Hydra, assassin, traitor and terrorist - will be interrogated by the CIA, and Steve Rogers is going to just stand by and watch.

The very idea of it is spinning round and round in Steve’s head. He wants to put his fist through one of the perfect plate glass windows but he can’t, he  _ can’t _ . This is about Bucky and doing whatever they can to keep him safe. Steve hates this course of action. It feels wrong, it feels so wrong, and he only wishes he knew what was the right thing to do, but they don’t have much of a choice. Sam, Boulos and Bruce have vocally opposed, but Hill, Pedley, Pepper and Tony are all in favour. Steve needs all of them, but he’s not one to just sit around and let things that feel wrong just happen. The temptation to just grab Bucky, steal a quinjet, and make for the border, any border, is growing stronger by the moment.

Maria Hill had been pleased with Pedley’s conclusion from the psychological examination – that she considered Bucky Barnes was finally stable enough for debrief – and had immediately mobilised her underground army of former SHIELD personnel to get together a joint task force. A lot of the agents who had survived the HYDRA uprising had, after  _ thorough  _ vetting, been eagerly recruited by other intelligence agencies; SHIELD, it turned out, had always hired and trained the best. Steve learns that Kate the nurse aka Agent 13 aka Sharon Carter had instantly been snapped up by the CIA, and after one week was already running her own team. She’s the first person Hill contacts, off the record, to indicate that she might know the whereabouts of a person of interest who may, if handled sensitively, be able to provide pertinent information on HYDRA. Sharon will know what to do, what words to whisper into which ears to get what they want. 

It’s Sam who is the one to suggest bringing in the army too. After all, it is not just the Winter Soldier who will be interviewed here, it’s also Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, hero of the Howling Commandos and probably the longest-serving POW in military history. Steve might have retired from the army when he woke up in the 21st century, but unless someone can prove that Barnes willingly defected, he at least is still a serving member of the United States military, and the military looks after its own. So this time they reach out to Rhodey and his military contacts. The Colonel is also less than happy with the situation, but he says he’ll see what he can do. Off the record.

There’s rules, of course, that Sam, Steve and Samir Boulos formulate between them. The debrief will take place in Stark Tower. Sergeant Barnes will not be leaving the building. The joint task force will comprise the above named persons and their chosen representatives of the CIA and the army, as well as employees of Stark Industries private security and members of the Avengers. Barnes’ psychiatric doctor and lawyer will both be present at all times. Maria Hill is in charge. No-one is to touch Sergeant Barnes or approach him any closer than three metres. No weapons will be allowed in the room. If Barnes is in any way anxious or distressed, or his mental or physical health is threatened in any way they will stop questioning immediately, until Dr Pedley determines it is safe to continue. 

Steve hovers around the TV for hours on the evening that Maria’s agents tell the CIA and the army that the Winter Soldier is in Avengers’ custody. He’s convinced the breaking news bar will flash across the screen any moment:  _ HOMELAND SECURITY CLOSES IN ON HYDRA KILLER  _ or perhaps _ CAPTAIN AMERICA HARBOURS FUGITIVE ASSASSIN _ . A few little words that would unleash a storm of fury against the Avengers and damn Bucky to be publicly hung, drawn and quartered in front of the world. The atmosphere in the apartment is tense all night, Steve and Sam on the sofa and Bucky silent in his corner, all of them just waiting for the sound of helicopters, gunshots, combat boots on the stairs as the government comes to take Bucky away. None of them sleep.

But Sharon and Rhodey stick to their words. There's no breaking news and no-one comes.

By the next day, though, the fallout starts to trickle down. The first demand is the worst, but it’s not unexpected. Carter calls Hill with the news; her superiors want to take Barnes into immediate CIA custody. Steve gets the call right while he’s in the middle of persuading Bucky once again to eat something. He’s seconds from scooping Bucky up, grabbing Sam and running for the hangar bay, but Hills tells him to keep calm. They expected this and she and Carter will handle it, and somehow, Steve believes her. She calls back after a few anxious hours, and it apparently had been relatively easy to change the agency’s mind. The demand had been little more than bravado. Since the destruction of the Fridge, there is no known containment centre secure enough to hold someone with the Winter Soldier’s skills, and what more highly skilled or dedicated guards could the CIA provide than the Avengers themselves? Sharon has quite pointedly relayed all this and apparently whoever it is putting pressure on her backs off.

Hill texts Steve again several times over the course of the day with more updates. The army have also now been in contact, via Rhodey, demanding to take custody of the prisoner, and they also want a DNA sample. Apparently they are having some trouble believing the resurrection of yet another World War Two supersoldier presumed KIA in 1945. Hill again refuses the former demand but agrees to the latter, with Steve acquiring a cheek swab from Bucky and directing them to the Smithsonian and Bucky’s old uniforms for a comparative sample. Then it’s the CIA again who want to change the debrief location to Langley. Hill refuses. Then the army wants to bring in their own lawyer and psychiatrist. Hill agrees. The army wants a blood sample. Hill refuses. The CIA wants to run a polygraph. Hill just rolls her eyes.

Emma Pedley, meanwhile, has been trying to prepare Bucky for the upcoming interrogation by going over and over who will be present and what he’ll probably be asked, but all he responds with is  _ I will comply _ followed by silence and they have no idea how much he really understands. And now it’s the evening two days before what Sam is optimistically calling ‘the interview’; none of them have slept, Bucky hasn’t kept any food down all day and Steve’s stress levels are through the roof, so when he, Sam and Bucky enter the common area on floor 84 to see Natasha Romanov lounging up against the wall, Steve thinks he’s having a stress induced hallucination. It had been Pedley’ idea to take Bucky out of the apartment for the evening, to see a new environment, to be amongst different people. They are all in a state of high anxiety about the upcoming debrief and some new stimuli might be beneficial. Steve can’t be sure about Bucky, but for him and Sam the change from the same endless repetition of the apartment to med centre to apartment is extremely welcome.

The sight of Nat, though, is more like astonishing.

“Hey stranger,” Nat says, looking up from her nails with a lazy, relaxed glance. 

“Nat!” Sam and Steve both say at the same time. Steve is across the room and hugging her tightly before he can stop himself. He’s missed her a lot in the last few weeks.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Steve asks into her shoulder. She pats his arm and he lets go, stepping back to take in the sight of her. She looks good, all things considered, though perhaps a little tired. Her hair is short now, shorter even than it was two years ago during the Chitauri invasion, a modern asymmetric cut, buzzed to the scalp on one side while the other cascades into a messy scarlet wave.

“Hey.” Sam greets her too with his own hug before she speaks again.

“So,” Nat says, eyes falling on Bucky. “Heard you were getting some old friends together. I didn’t want to miss out on the party.” Steve knows her just about well enough by now to realise that her relaxation is all faked. Whatever reason she’s here is solely because of Bucky and she’s not that happy about it.

“Yeah? How’d you even hear that?” asks Sam. “Thought you were out of the country. In the wind.”

“I was,” she says. “Occasionally a little news gets wafted my way.” She pushes away from the wall and now her attention is fixed entirely over Steve’s shoulder on Bucky. Bucky, in his turn, is standing just behind Sam. He’s tense as a board, arms at his sides, chin down, watching Nat unblinkingly through that curtain of hair. Apart from the absence of guns Steve recognises the combat-ready pose from the walkway on the helicarrier and he’s instantly on high alert. What if Bucky sees Nat as a threat? A fight between the two of them could end in a blood bath and he genuinely has no idea who would win.

Nat saunters slowly forward and stops, some distance away from the Winter Soldier, keeping the table between them. She hasn’t taken her eyes off Bucky and he is watching her just as intently. Sam glances at Steve, clearly wondering if they ought to be getting the hell out of the way. Steve raises a hand, palm wide. Stay calm.

“Ты помнишь меня?”Nat asks, quietly.

Bucky just stares. He shifts his weight minutely from the heels to the balls of his feet, and blinks twice.

“Natalia Alianovna Romanova,” he says, hoarsely. It’s the first thing he’s said all day. Steve is relieved to hear his voice up until he continues with: “Two targets, level six.”

Of course. The Soldier’s mission. They’d gotten around the programming for Steve but no-one had expected Natasha to show up again quite so soon. And no-one’s briefed her. What if she-

“It’s just Nat,” Natasha says, and waits.

Bucky is still so tense his right hand is shaking, but he doesn’t move to attack. They stay in that frozen tableau for almost a full minute before Bucky quietly says:

“Nat.” 

“That’s right.”

“I should kill you,” he says, harshly. 

“Should you?” she asks, her tone still mild. “You could try, I suppose.”

“Nat is a friend, Buck,” says Steve, actually alarmed by the genuine malice in Bucky’s voice just now. “You don’t want to hurt her.”

“She’s here to kill me. To take me back. I should kill her first.”

“Я больше не работаю для них,” Nat switches into Russian, and Steve has no idea what she’s saying. Her tone is neutral; unthreatening but unafraid. “Я свободен. Как ты и обещал.”

Bucky twitches hard at that. He’s tense as a drawn wire.

“I don't remember you.”

“No. I don’t suppose you do,” she says, and then reaches into a pocket. “Here.”

Steve catches sight of a silver glint as she tosses something to Bucky in an underarm throw. The Winter Soldier catches it in his left hand and that’s when Steve sees it’s a  _ goddamn knife _ .

“Nat!” Sam hisses. “You can’t give him that!”

Nat folds her arms. “Only I chose what I can and can’t do.”

And when Steve glances at Bucky he can see that, while the man has the knife gripped tightly in his hand, his rigid pose has relaxed. He’s armed and he feels safe again, even if the rest of them feel slightly less safe. Sam keeps making pointed glances between Bucky’s new knife and the door, but Steve doesn’t think he could take the weapon off Bucky if he tried.

In the end, Nat stays, the Soldier doesn’t attack her and they spend the evening watching kids movies in the home theatre. They leave the lights on and the sound low to make the room less intense for Bucky. The man himself, somewhat to Steve’s surprise, has actually sat himself down on the floor at the foot of the couch where Steve and Sam are sitting, rather than retreating away from them all to a corner of the room. His fear of Nat must be much greater than his fear of the new environment if he feels safer keeping Sam and Steve close by. He doesn’t look up at the movie but he seems relaxed, at least, and at one point even puts the knife down. 

Steve had fired off a quick message to the other Avengers earlier to warn them that they’re going to be taking Bucky down to the common room that evening, so that they can avoid the Soldier. He’s therefore more than a little surprised when he hears Bruce and Clint talking in the other room and then a short while later they wander in while the team is about halfway through  _ How To Train Your Dragon _ . 

“Evening,” Clint says and vaults onto the couch next to Nat, stealing a handful of her peanut m&ms on the way past. “Sam, Cap. Hi Winter.”

“Hey,” says Bruce, glancing up from his tablet briefly before slumping into his usual seat, eyes glued to the device’s screen.

“How was Guatemala?” says Nat, poking Clint in the ribs with her toe.

Clint shrugs. “Same old. God, I love shooting HYDRA goons.”

“Hey,” Steve says, cautiously. “You did get my text, right?”

“Uh huh,” says Bruce, without looking up.

“Yep,” says Clint, popping the p. 

And that seems to be that. 

They finish the movie and Steve tenses up at the bit where the Viking kid gets an artificial leg but Bucky doesn’t have any reaction at all. Nat queues the sequel straight after and Clint wisely chooses to make nachos rather than popcorn. Things that sound like gunshots are tricky at the best of times, and the best times don’t usually involve armed traumatised amnesiac former assassins. Bruce and Sam talk quietly about some project the former is working on, and Nat looks like she’s dozing against Clint’s shoulder even though Steve knows she’s actually watching Bucky like a hawk. Tony doesn’t show.

Bucky only speaks once, the whole evening. Out of the blue, he says:

“Bишневые пирожки.”

“Sorry, Bucky, what was that?” Steve says, but Bucky doesn’t repeat it.

Across the room, Nat nods and gives the tiniest quirk of a smile. It’s something between them, then.

As they’re reaching the end of the second movie, Bucky looks like he’s fallen asleep so Steve leaves Sam to watch him and follows Nat into the kitchen.

“Not that I’m not pleased to see you, Nat, but why are you here?”

“Because of him,” she says, filling a glass, and they both know who she’s talking about. “Don’t tell me you’re surprised.”

“But why now?” Steve challenges. “If you wanted to help we could have used you before, back at the cabin.”

Nat smiles. “You seem to have managed perfectly fine on your own.”

“We almost died.”

“But you didn’t. Besides, Clint had your back.”

“So, why now?”

Nat tilts her head and watches him guardedly. “Maria asked me to come in.”

“Why?”

“Steve. Wake up. You know what’s happening the day after tomorrow.” 

Steve nods. “The interrogation.”

“Exactly. Who did you think was going to be doing the interrogating?”

\---

The night is cold. 

Beyond the safety rail the city is stretched out like a carpet studded with lights, like a forest of stars. From this height, the roar of traffic, voices, sirens, the noise of 8.5 million people living their lives, merges together into a dull hum barely distinguishable even to supersoldier ears. The November wind whistles and small white flakes start to dance from the sky. The snow will melt long before it reaches the ground.

Steve breathes deep, lets the cold air sharp with winter’s bite fill his lungs. If he closes his eyes he can try to ignore the taste of the modern pollutants on the air, imagine he’s back 70 years ago in the snow clad forests deep in Austria, or a decade before that on a frozen Brooklyn fire escape while Bucky smokes and they watch the snow fall. 

Anywhere but here.

“I know we don’t do touchy-feely,” says a voice behind him. “But just in case you were in any doubt, if you jump off the edge, I’m dumping your pal straight on the doorstep of the nearest orphanage.”

“Tony.”

Stark wanders up to the railing about three metres away and leans against it, staring out into the night. He’s clutching an unlabelled bottle of something amber-coloured and probably potent, and he looks about as tired as Steve feels. 

“Sorry,” Steve says. “Didn’t know anyone else would be up here.”

“This place used to be my exclusive sulking spot,” Tony says. “I don’t know; this tower had 93 floors and the only place I ever find anyone these days is cluttering up my rooftop like agressively patriotic pigeons. Guess I’m going to go back to moping in my workshop like the old days.”

Steve smiles a little. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude,” he says, and makes to leave.

“I’m surprised you’re still here at all, actually,” Tony says, suddenly.

“Excuse me?”

“With the thing tomorrow. You know, the CIA thing? Thought you and New Guy would have grabbed Armed and Dangerous and hightailed it out of here days ago. I wouldn’t have stopped you. Course, eventually they probably would have paid me to hunt you down.”

“I can’t say I haven’t thought about it,” Steve admits, into the night time quiet. “But I want to try and do this properly. He’s never going to be safe. People like us are never safe. But if we run now, we’ll never stop. If there’s any chance he can have a normal life...”

“You think he deserves one?” asks Tony, bitterly, and Steve turns, sharp. 

“Do any of us?”

It had been a nice moment, for a few seconds, and now Stark is just riling him up again. He’s not sure why he expected Tony to understand,  _ hoped _ he’d understand. The man is an ass, he’s incapable of letting go of his ego, he’s – Steve takes a deep breath and looks back out at the night. 

None of this is Tony’s fault, either. 

“What happened?” Steve asks, quietly. “To us. We weren’t ever the closest of friends but we were never like this.”

Stark shrugs. “Stress? Trauma?” He waves the bottle and then casts a significant look at the safety rail around the roof edge. “Inappropriate coping mechanisms?”

“For God’s sake, Tony,” Steve sighs. “I’m just here for some fresh air. I’m not going to jump.” 

“Good,” says Tony. “This tower is 1138 feet tall. Have you any idea how much mess that would make?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“So why are you out here freezing your balls off in the sleet rather than enjoying the multi-million dollar state-of-the-art apartment I built for you?”

“Nat just dropped a bit of a bombshell about tomorrow. I’m just...trying to get my head together.”

“Is this about her leading the interrogation? Who did you think was going to do it, Steve? She came from the Red Room; if anyone knows about how brainwashed Soviets think, it’s her. Plus she’s worked with the Winter Soldier before, so that gives her a-”

“She  _ what? _ ”

“I assumed that was in the file you didn’t let me read. No? Well, the Soldier trained a bunch of Red Room operatives in the late 1980s. Natalia Romanova ran joint ops with him back in the day, before Clint ‘defected’ her. You didn’t know that?”

Steve has to stop and just process that information for a moment. Nat knew the Winter Soldier and she hadn’t told Steve. Even Stark had known what Steve didn’t. He thinks back to the look on Natasha’s face when she’s seen Bucky. Their curt exchange of Russian. He remembers  _ ‘Soviet slugs, no rifling’ _ and  _ ‘he’s a ghost story’ _ . He remembers _ ‘I know who shot Nick Fury’. _

“No. I didn’t know. She didn’t mention it.” 

“Yeah, well, don’t take it personally. It’s kind of what she does.”

Steve  _ is  _ taking it personally though, and that’s an issue. He doesn’t have so many friends that he can afford to lose the few he has. Talking of friends...

“Are you going to be there? Tomorrow?”

Stark shrugs and takes a swig from the bottle. “Maybe. If there’s nothing on Netflix.”

That’s a yes, then. Another friendly face for their side? Or just someone else who hates the Winter Soldier?

“Would you blame Natasha?” Steve asks, suddenly. “She’s Red Room. What they did to those kids in there wasn’t far off what they did to Bucky. And she’s done some terrible things. If she hadn’t gotten out, if she’d stayed trapped under their control, would you blame her? Because I know what you’ve done for Bucky and me; you’ve taken us in, hidden us, hired a medical team, and you’re working on his arm. I owe you so much, Tony, and I know it. I'm grateful. But it couldn’t be clearer that you think Bucky is to blame for everything that’s happened, that you think he should be, I don’t know _ , punished _ somehow for these crimes. I just want to know why it’s different for Nat.”

Stark stares at him for a second. 

“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe it’s because she didn’t kill my parents.”

A deep, deep silence flows out around them.

“What?”

“You heard.” 

“Howard and Maria died in a car accident.”

“Please,” says Tony, cold and furious. “You know what my IQ is, Steve, and I know for a fact you’re not at dumb as the bags of rocks in your biceps so don’t embarrass yourself. You knew.”

“I...” Steve says, and it would be so easy to lie. To feign innocence, to change the subject, do  _ anything  _ not to ruin irrevocably whatever frayed bond of friendship still lies between them. But he just can’t do it. Lies have done enough damage to all of them. “I didn’t... _ know _ . Not for sure. Zola said something, he said  _ history had been changed _ , and I had this suspicion, but… I wanted to find out for sure before I said anything. But it wasn’t him. Either way, it wasn’t Bucky.”

“So you're all about truth and justice until it’s your old buddy in the prime suspect spot and then...what? Thought you’d just pretend the whole thing didn’t happen? For  _ three weeks _ ? That’s fucking cold, Steve. They were my parents _.  _ I’ve been helping you. Helping  _ him _ , even though the sight of him, of that arm, makes me want to burn things to the ground.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Too fucking late.” Tony makes a sound through his teeth and turns away. He takes another swig. Steve turns away. He knows he should leave. Just go, before he finds another way to make things with Tony any worse.

But somehow he can’t help but ask. “How long have  _ you _ known? That it wasn’t an accident?” 

“Years.” Tony sits down suddenly, putting his back to one of the vents. “I had my suspicions from the start but it was only in the last five or so, after Iron Man, that I started, you know, getting close. Maybe I was just sober more often.”

“I’m sorry.” Steve says again, uselessly. “You didn’t say anything. I was being an ass, guilting you about working on the arm, thinking you were just punishing us both for no reason, when all this time you were dealing with this. Why didn’t you say something?”

“Yeah, well, why didn’t you?” Tony mutters. “He killed my mom, and you suspected that for three weeks and never told me. Even if you’d known for certain, would you ever have said?”

Steve’s silence is eloquent. The cold wind whips cruelly around them. 

“Hill’s team raided a HYDRA outpost in Guatemala yesterday,” Stark says, out of the blue. “They managed to get in before the self-destruct for once. There was a cryogenics pod, an operating theatre and an electroshock machine done up like a fucking dentist’s chair. I’ve seen the arm and I’ve seen his brain scan. I know what they did to him. To Barnes. I’ve seen him cry and puke and kneel on the floor like a beaten dog. I know he’s two zappings short of being a brain-dead automaton. But even now, if it wasn’t for you, I can’t say I wouldn’t gladly beat the shit out of him and still sleep sound as a baby afterwards.”

“If it wasn’t for me?”

“Yeah, Rogers. This was always all for you. Even though sometimes I want to punch you in your perfect teeth.”

“You’d probably have to get in line. Hell knows I deserve a punch in the face more than I do anything else.”

“Yeah, well, maybe we’d have a line each. There's more than enough self-disgust to go around.” Tony runs a hand through his hair and stares out into the night. “I mean, I know that this isn’t Barnes’ fault. Deep down I know that. He’s so fucked up he’s barely functioning and yet he still turned on HYDRA to protect you and Wings. Plus it was my Dad that was somehow involved in constructing that monstrosity wired into his shoulder. But despite all that I am still this close to throwing Cold War straight to the wolves because I can’t look past what he’s done to me personally. None of us are gonna come out of this smelling of roses, Cap.”

They are quiet for some time.

“I can’t believe Howard would willingly have been involved with HYDRA,” Steve says, quietly. “I just can’t. He was my friend too, and I want to make sure HYDRA pays for what they did to him. ”

Tony takes a swig. 

“Do you think…” Steve says after they’re both quiet for awhile. “Do you think we’ll ever be able to...I don’t know. Find some way past this? I want us to be okay again. I don’t want to lose the Avengers. Until Bucky came back, that was the best thing I had. The  _ only  _ thing I had. And we need you. Not Iron Man, or Stark Industries. You. HYDRA is a plague but this...this is personal now. They’ve hurt our families and friends and those bastards are still out there. We need to work together to take them down.”

Tony sighs. “That was a nice speech, but I honestly don’t know, Cap. I don’t think we can ever go back to the way things were. Your best friend  _ killed my mom _ . You’re gonna have to give me some time to work through that. But, and I know this is kind of radical, I do actually agree with you on that last point. Those fuckers are still out there, merrily living their lives, profitting off human misery, and that is going to change. We have work to do. Tomorrow, that is. Here.”

Tony tosses over the bottle. Steve catches it, one handed.

“You know this stuff doesn’t work on me anymore, right?” Steve says, though he uncaps the bottle and takes a swallow anyway. Single malt and expensive; that one bottle is probably worth more than Sam’s sister’s car.

“Don’t care,” says Tony. “But I promised Pepper I would not spend the night freezing my ass off on the roof, feeling sorry for myself and drinking alone.”

Steve offers the bottle back. “So now you’re freezing your ass off on the roof, feeling sorry for yourself and drinking with someone else?”

Tony inclines the bottle towards him, like a salute. “За здоровье!”

Steve sits down beside him. 

Eventually, the sun rises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NAT! NAT! NAT! NAT! NAT!
> 
> In other news, I really love this chapter.


	13. Asset

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta read by [theAsh0](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theAsh0/pseuds/theAsh0).
> 
> Warning: this chapter gets heavy.

“Are you okay there, Buck?”

The Soldier considers. 

_Buck_ is a shortened form of _Bucky_ which is the specific code name assigned by the handler called Steve. Therefore Steve is speaking and he is addressing the Asset.

The Asset has been asked this question, or variants of it, 19 different times this morning. It doesn’t reply. 

The floor in this room is smooth laminate in a grey colour. It is cold against James Barnes’ legs and socked feet. The wall is solid and reassuring behind the spine. The light from above is tinged with a faint halo, the world seems somehow distant and uncomplicated. This morning the Soldier had been given six pills instead of the usual five. Dr Pedley had said it was _something to take the edge off._

“Look,” says Steve. “I’m sorry I had to take your knife away. I know you don’t want to hurt anyone but the people you are going to meet...they don’t know you. I think they’d be a little scared if they saw you with it. I don’t think you want to scare anyone.”

The Asset scowls. What does Steve know? A big fat nothing.

Sam gives the Asset an encouraging smile but he at least doesn’t say anything. He is sitting across the corridor in another chair.

“Do you want to go through any of it again?” asks Steve. “It’s okay if you’re feeling nervous.”

“No.” The Asset says. 

It pulls on a loose thread on its sleeve. It had overheard Sam and Steve and Nat disagreeing about what the Asset should wear today while they thought it had gone somewhere else in Barnes’s head. Steve had said _dress uniform_ and Sam had said _suit_ and Nat had answered with “ _he’s not actually on trial, you know”_. In the end Steve had told the Asset that it should choose its own clothes, like every morning. The Asset has no opinion, as always, but it put on soft grey pants, socks and the dark red hooded jumper with the loose thread in the right sleeve cuff. The repetitive motion of pulling on the thread gives a vague sense of satisfaction that it is certain is not allowed. It does not have any shoes.

“Is that ‘no’ you don’t want me to explain anything again or ‘no’ you’re not nervous?” Steve is still talking.

The Asset considers. “Ready to comply,” it says at last, because it doesn’t know how else to answer. A knuckle in Steve’s hand goes crack.

“Winter,” says Sam. “You remember what the doc told you to do if someone says something that scares you or makes you feel angry?”

“Close the eyes and count for twenty breaths,” the Asset recites, as it has been taught. 

“Close _your_ eyes. Right. And what about if you want to take a break?” 

The Asset says; “Stop,” and makes a chopping motion with one hand onto the other palm. 

Sam says; “Good. Do you think you could try and eat again? You didn’t eat anything at all since yesterday morning.”

Sam balances the bottle containing the Asset’s food on the floor. He moves back but the Asset does not reach out for it. Sam has not made it an order and the Asset’s stomach and head are churning. It does not think it could manage to keep the food inside right now and Steve doesn’t like it when the Asset makes a mess on the bed or the floor.

Steve and Sam look at each other. “Leave it,” says Steve. “We’ll tackle that problem when we’re on the other side of today.”

“I hate this,” says Sam. “I’m guessing it’s too late to hide behind the couch and pretend we’re not in?” 

“We can do this,” Steve says. “We just gotta keep calm and it’ll all be over soon.”

Sam looks at his watch. “They must be nearly ready for him. I’ll see if they’re done arguing.” He walks up to the end of the corridor. Steve is watching the Asset again. It pulls on the frayed cuff of the sweater.

Sam returns. “Nope,” he says. “Still going.” 

“Okay,” says Steve. “I’m sure they’ll be done soon. Bucky, how are you feeling?”

 _Twenty times._ Response required.

“I don’t...” The Asset says. It regrets speaking immediately, unsure even where the words came from. It claps its hands over its mouth, but it’s too late now. The sound has escaped.

“...you don’t what, Winter? What is it?”

“Don’t want to go.” The Asset mumbles quietly through its hands, hoping they won’t hear.

The handlers look at each other for a second. 

“It’s okay, Bucky. I understand. I’m sorry that you have to go through this, but we’ll be with you the whole time. It’s just a few questions and then we can...”

Steve goes quiet when he sees that the Asset is shaking its head. 

“Not... _ опрос _...not the debrief,” the Asset tries to explain, still hiding behind its hands as if they won’t know it's speaking if they can’t see the mouth moving. Stupid. _Idiot_. Of course they’ll know. But the Soldier is not being disobedient. It’s important they know it isn’t refusing the debrief. It’s just...

This is the last step. Punishment, healing, repair, retraining. No food or drink for 24 hours before or the defrost is _brutal_. Debrief is the only thing left. Once it has been debriefed, they will wipe it and then it goes on ice. The last step. Then the wipe. And he will forget Sam and Steve and the blue blanket, and movies about dragons, and dangerous Bruce who gave it a protein bar and Natalia Romanova ' _it's just_ _Nat’_ who gave it a knife. It will forget not being punished, hot water in the shower and crayons and ‘ _you protected us’_ and ‘ _you did really good’_ and ‘ _friend’_. It will forget what it was like to be Yasha. Winter. _Bucky._

“I’ll be lost,” the Asset says, at last, so quietly Sam leans in to hear. “In the Chair. Forget. I don’t want to go. _ Bitte." _

It’s not as if begging has ever worked before but it can’t make things any worse now. If the Asset is going to be wiped and frozen, to lose everything that matters anyway, who cares if they punish it first? It will still be gone. 

“The _Chair,_ ” says Sam to Steve, as if he is understanding something for the first time. “Guatemala, remember?”

“ _Shit,"_ says Steve. That isn't part of his normal speech pattern _._ "Bucky. Listen.” Steve has moved; he’s crouched on the floor in front of the Asset. The Asset looks carefully aside. “There’s nothing like that chair here, okay? We couldn’t do that to you even if we wanted to, which we definitely do not, okay? No-one wants you to forget any more. I want you to remember, and to keep on remembering.”

“I’ll forget,” The Asset says, dully. It lets the hands drop. “Wiped clean.”

“You are not going to be _wiped,_ do you understand? Ever again.”

_Sure, pal. Whatever you say._

A door opens at the end of the corridor. Two people are approaching. Steve and Sam both stand up to meet them. The Asset doesn’t move, but it quickly darts the eyes ( _your eyes_ ) over them, judging the threat level. The first man is the new STRIKE commander, Agent Hawkeye, Clint. Dr Pedley had showed the Asset his photograph. He is wearing combat gear but appears unarmed. He is holding a small black case in his right hand, it’s probably not a gun, wrong shape, but might contain any number of toxins, knives, explosives... He has not yet hurt the Asset. He may have a mission.

The Soldier does not remember the other man. He is older, frail, unarmed. He will not present a physical threat.

“Mr Boulos,” Sam greets them. “Hawkeye.”

“Hey guys,” says the STRIKE commander/ Agent Hawkeye/ Clint. Too long for a codename. _I’m Clint,_ he had said. He will be Clint. 

"Good morning Captain, Mr Wilson," says the older man, the stranger. “May I?”

“Of course,” says Steve, and then; “Bucky, hey. There’s someone here to meet you.”

The stranger approaches. The Asset wants to shrink back into the wall but it doesn’t dare move. The stranger stops some metres away and looks down at the Asset where he sits on the floor. The stranger says; "Good morning. They tell me you don't like to shake hands, so I’ll just introduce myself. I am Mr Boulos."

The Asset is silent, doesn't look up.

"What would you like me to call you?"

The Asset casts a low, anxious glance at Steve who is crouched nearby, looking for his reaction. Is this yet _another_ handler? Is the question another trap? It has no idea what the correct answer is. 

"Would you be okay if Mr Boulos called you Yasha?" Steve said. "Or do you want to be Winter?"

"If we are being informal," says Mr Boulos, "how about James?"

The Soldier observes Steve’s body language change; he goes tense as if in anticipation of danger. But the Soldier senses nothing out of the ordinary, no sign of a threat, and nothing else happens. After some moments of waiting, the Asset drags its attention back to the question. It considers for a while longer and then nods. 

"You...you want to be called James?" Steve says. His voice sounds strange.

The Asset nods. The very sound of the name makes the heart thud, anxious, but it is quickly realising it is easier to keep track of how it is meant to act with all the different technicians and handlers if they use different codenames. There are too many different instructions. They don't comply with recognised protocols and there is no consistency in their orders. Different names are helping, a little. It has not been punished again since the poison, weeks ago, so that is something. A good something.

"James," Mr Boulos agrees. "I am a lawyer. I am here to give you and Steve advice about your situation, act on your behalf, and to make sure you are treated fairly in line with the laws of this country."

The Asset makes no response.

“You are attending this interview voluntarily, so if there is anything you don’t want to answer, you don’t have to. And if I advise you not to answer, I suggest that you do not.”

The Asset still doesn’t respond. Mr Boulos looks at Steve.

“Does he...understand me?”

No. The Asset does not understand. It knows what a lawyer is, of course, but the man is talking about choice. There _are_ no choices. If it is told to respond then it must. It does not understand. Why is it being given a new handler just before the wipe? It makes no sense. It jabs the metal fingers into its leg. The little twist of pain brings some clarity through the haze, soothes the anxious swell of the stomach.

“They’re running out of steam in there,” says Clint from down the hall. “So we ought to head in. You guys ready?”

“No,” Steve says, with a sigh.

“Come on,” says Clint. “Sooner we get this interrogation started the sooner it’ll be done with and we can all go and have a nice relaxing afternoon trying to scrub away that dirty, disgusted feeling with bleach.”

The Asset doesn’t respond. It keeps its eyes low. 

“Bucky,” says Steve. “Okay, stand up, pal. Time to go.”

The Soldier stands. 

Clint holds out the box to Steve. He opens it and takes out two thick silver bands. Wrist cuffs.

“This is fucked up,” says Sam.

“You’re telling me,” says Clint.

“Bucky,” Steve is saying. “Remember that we talked about...”

The Asset holds out its wrists. It doesn’t need reminding. This part is familiar. The Soldier is a valuable asset but the technicians are valuable too. The Asset does not damage HYDRA property.

Steve is careful not to touch its real arm. The movement is gentle, without causing pain into the shoulder, but James Barnes’ heart thuds heavy in its ears as the cuffs close and then the wrists snap together with a _click_. Steve lets go and the arms, flesh and metal, drop together.

“Come on,” says Clint, and he turns and walks away. Mr Boulos the lawyer goes next. Steve is at the Soldier’s side, and Sam takes the six. They reach the end of the corridor. 

Voices ahead. Raised and tense. Clint pushes a door and they walk in. The voices go silent and the Asset stops.

There are nine people in the room. Suits and uniforms. Soldiers, spies, agents. _Dangerous, dangerous_. Reinforced windows ahead, and Steve and others blocking the door behind it. Can’t tell if there are weapons; the soldiers and spies and agents are sitting down, they could be armed with anything. One huge oval table in the centre of the room, office chairs, no other furniture, nothing for him to use as a weapon. The Soldier is unarmed, drugged, and restrained. Outnumbered, eight to one, twelve to one. Trapped. 

“It’s okay,” says Steve. “Bucky, it’s okay. Come on.”

The Soldier stays frozen, snared, instincts screaming. The onlookers are silent now. Their stares feel like a thousand cold lasers. It needs to hide, to run, to _fight, kill..._

A touch to the back of the flesh hand. A gentle pull on the cuffs.

“It’s all right, Bucky. You’re safe. Just breathe.”

The touch turns into a smooth circle on his hand and, slowly, the Soldier breathes in. In a daze it obeys the order. It stumbles, dropping its eyes, burrowing its nose into the neck of the hoodie. Cover the face. It follows Clint across the room.

Sensors around the walls, like the first room it stayed in. More eyes, eyes for JARVIS.

“Here, Bucky, sit down. That’s right.”

The Asset is nudged towards a seat on the empty long edge of the oval. The window is at its back. It sits in the chair and keeps its eyes low.

There is still silence and all those eyes. The Asset breathes through its mouth, like Dr Pedley instructed. 

It startles as someone brushes the metal arm and it sees Natali- Nat. It’s just Nat. She’s standing beside it. She must have touched the arm on purpose but the Asset is too dazed to reprimand her. She is wearing a black form-fitting jumpsuit that would allow her a full range of movement in combat. The Asset can't see a weapon but it has no doubt she has one. She is highly dangerous. 

Nat gives a small smile. “Cтой, Cолдат,” she says.

She waves a small device over its hands and the cuffs on each arm disconnect from each other with a click. She holds onto the cuff around the metal wrist and directs the limb onto the table until it is lying on a panel embedded into the surface. With a faint hum, the band is activated again, magnetised to the panel: solid, immovable. The arm is trapped. The Soldier pulls the arm a little, an automatic gesture. The restraint doesn’t give. It holds out the flesh arm onto the panel too, but Nat does not activate the second cuff. She taps her fingers against the flesh hand, twice - a message, a signal - and then walks away, back to her seat opposite.

“You missed an arm, Ms Romanov.” One of the suits.

“Sergeant Barnes uses sign language,” Steve says. His voice is tight, tense. “If you want your questions answered, you need to let him move at least one hand.”

“Oh, very well,” says the suit.

“It’s all right, Captain Rogers,” says another suit. Female, blonde. Agent.

The Soldier brings its flesh arm back in silence, pulls up the hoodie over its mouth. Picks at the thread in the sleeve.

“Are you feeling okay, Yasha?” says a voice quietly beside it. It is Dr Pedley, sitting on his right side. She has a bag at her feet, probably containing drugs, restraints, methods of punishment. Even though that was 21 times, even though it is breaking the rules not to answer, it can’t speak right now, not under all those eyes. Its chest and throat and head feel tense, like being crushed in a vice. It offers a twitchy nod and hopes that won’t constitute non-compliance. 

“Close enough,” says Dr Pedley.

“Where’s Tony?” says Steve to her, quietly. 

“No show, as yet.”

“Sergeant Barnes, thank you for joining us,” says someone else, louder. “Captain America, Mr Wilson, would you please take a seat?"

The Soldier's eyes flick across the speaker. The Asset’s brain recalls that she is Sam's friend, Maria. She looks like a civilian, in a grey dress, but she is not a civilian. Maria is _In Charge._ The Soldier remembers that she gave it a mission. She has taken control of the Asset. Maybe she is the new Secretary. _Dangerous, dangerous._

"All right, Winter? Clint and I will be waiting just over there," says Sam, quietly. There's a line of chairs by the wall, away from the table. "You’re gonna be fine. This will all be over before you know it." 

The Asset's tongue wants to say _don't go._ Sam and Clint go away, over to the chairs.

Steve sits down on the Asset's left.

"Well, Ms Hill," says one the uniforms with a frown. There are four of them. Soldiers. This one is old. He's holding up a photograph. "Although I suppose there are some similarities, I can't say that this individual looks particularly like the Sergeant Bucky Barnes we all know from our history textbooks. Can you introduce yourself, young man?"

There is only silence. The Asset keeps the head down, flickers the eyes.

Another voice. The first suit. "The General has a point. It has been 68 years since Sergeant Barnes was killed in action. Can you provide any more proof that we are looking at the same person? We've already discussed the issues with facial recognition software, and when combined with the failure of the recent DNA test...” 

"Isn’t my word good enough?" Steve is saying. "I've known this man my entire life. This _is_ James Barnes."

"Captain, with all due respect, this has been a trying month for you. From what I understand you were severely injured when you identified your assailant. Is it possible that you..."

"Are you insinuating I'm lying?"

"No, no. Mistaken, maybe."

“You must admit, Captain, that it seems much more likely that you have made a misidentification than that there was a second supersoldier in the Howling Commandos that was, until today, unknown to history,” says the uniform. “If we are to recognise this man as a serving member of the US military we need to be absolutely certain, beyond doubt, of his identity, and, with the best will in the world, his reluctance to speak for himself and your explanation of amnesia seem mighty convenient."

"I can assure you, there's nothing _convenient_ about my patient’s mental state," says Dr Pedley. "Sergeant Barnes has suffered years of prolonged systematic torture the like of which I doubt any of you can truly comprehend. Incidentally, just one result of that abuse is severe anxiety, which I have no intention of exacerbating by prolonging this debrief unduly. If we could, perhaps, begin?"

"Well said," says another uniform. Blue, Air Force. The man is black, a little shorter than Sam, more wiry. Still a soldier. Quick intelligent eyes. The Asset can see from his glance there's familiarity with Steve, an old ally perhaps. "Let's find out what, if anything, the Winter Soldier can tell us before we start accusing anyone of anything.

“Солдат,” says Nat. The Asset moves its head from the uniforms, glances at her, looks away. “I am going to ask you some questions. I wish for you to respond to them as fully as you can. Do you understand?”

The Asset states that it is ready to comply. 

Then it complies and complies and complies.

Nat shows the Asset pictures and it must identify them, just like before in Dr Pedley's office. There is Secretary Pierce _(a gift to mankind)_ and Field Handler Rumlow _(What the fuck did you do that for, you useless piece of shit?)_. Mech techs Hansard and Smith _(it's that same connection in the socket that's burned out again, Jesus...)_ , Wolframm and Vanko, and med tech Avon and the one it thought of only as Cold Hands _(this won’t hurt) -_ close the eyes, count to twenty, breathe - and the STRIKE soldiers Elstow and Miller and Rollins _(this one’s just for fun) -_ close the eyes, count to twenty, breathe - and there were the ones who operated the Chair, purged it for the ice _(that’s fuckin’ disgusting)_ , and ten others, a dozen, and then that round little eager face with the little glasses - close the eyes, count to twenty, breathe, count to twenty, breathe, the eyes, count to...

Thumb on the flesh hand. Circle, circle, circle. _Wake up, Sergeant Barnes._

It complies as much as it can. Answers the questions. Follows its orders. Sometimes it knows names; the techs and the soldiers had often talked over it and around it like it was nothing, gossiped and chatted while it cringed and starved, and some of that stuck. Sometimes it knows nothing more than faces and the pain they brought, and then it shivers and shakes and feels sick until the pictures are taken away. Sometimes it doesn’t know anything at all and it sees only strangers, more unfriendly eyes staring up at it from the paper.

Then after the names and the photos come the dates and the places. Missions. Bases. Targets. It had told Steve it remembered the missions. Now Nat wants it to tell the suits and the uniforms. Dates mean little, the information had seldom been considered relevant in its mission briefings except where the passing of time meant new guns or types of grenade to learn until every one of them becomes a reflex, an extension of its own body. It tells them about rifles instead, and blades and calculating velocity. Sightlines. Of snow and blood. Fire. Punishment. The memories rise up in its throat to choke it until it can only say one word at a time; да  or нет, and then the words go away entirely and it can only speak with flickers of the hands that Clint has to read out loud.

They ask about Dallas. About the Siege of Sarajevo, about Sao Paulo and Da Nang, and it remembers, all of a sudden, the dead children in Laos, and the crying of a baby called Frances. The body rebels, retching, trying to empty out, even though it is already empty, so utterly empty. A husk. The Asset’s thoughts are glitching, stuck on the image of the dead children and the blood on the fields. Over and over and over... It needs recalibration. Reset. The Asset raises its free arm and strikes the side of its head two, three times. Steve grabs the arm, holds it down, so the Asset slams its forehead down onto the table top instead. Someone’s hand is quickly under the forehead, cushioning against a second blow, but one was enough. The image has gone. The glitch resets and it can breathe again.

It doesn’t even recall what it remembered.

They don’t ask it any more questions for some time after that. Sam cleans the Asset’s face where it is bleeding and Steve snaps at the suits in a tense, angry voice. 

“Please,” the Asset whispers when it can find its words again. Its face is still wet. “I won’t fight back. Please.”

“Take it easy, Winter. We’ve stopped, we’re not asking any more. It’s okay.”

“Mr Wilson...” 

“No. We’re stopping this. No more questions.”

“I agree. My client has been more than co-operative and his distress is obvious.”

“I’m afraid co-operation is not enough. I don’t want to hear your disagreements, Agent Carter, the detainee has been barely coherent. He’s recognised a few faces and events but nothing we didn’t already suspect to be related to HYDRA. Mr Boulos, unless your client is able to provide some information which actually assists the agency in making solid arrests, and without clear proof of his identity, we are going to be forced to...”

There is a clang, like a door. The Asset startles as the mech tech Tony Stark enters the room. He is not wearing the robot suit for once, but still has robot hands, much like the Asset.

“Tony!”

“Morning,” says the mech tech, “Please, don’t get up. Particularly the guy ,you know, actually cuffed to the table. Rhodey! They didn’t tell me they’d dragged you into judging tonight’s episode of _HYDRA’s Got Talent_.”

“Tony, I told you three days ago that the military was-”

“Was that a Tuesday? I never listen to sinister secret interrogation talk on Tuesdays, you know that. Anyway, here. Catch. Yes, General, I’m talking to you. Catch.”

“Mr Stark, what am I looking at here?” 

“Your proof. Get-out-of-torture-free card. Morning, Cap.”

“Tony. What's going on?”

“It’s DNA test results. Yeah, yeah, I already know you did a test and his buccal swab didn’t match some random hair you pulled off the famous Howling Commandos coat, don’t get your khakis in a twist. The coat is in a public goddamn museum, maybe the hair came off a sticky toddler or a museum guard. Maybe wartime Barnes was a cuddler. Whatever. So I did my own test. Those papers in your hand are proof of a positive familial DNA link between the Terminator here and the niece of Bucky Barnes, one Mrs Jennifer Kavanagh, née Barnes-Proctor, of Whitefish, Montana.”

“Very interesting, Mr Stark, but one positive result could be coincidence or lab error. We would need-”

“Do I look done?” 

There is a sound like leaves of paper falling. 

“ _And_ here’s positive DNA results for three other Barnes relatives, to wit: a nephew and two great nieces. 1412 and 1528 centimorgans in the niece and nephew, and 1078 and 1109 cMs in the great nieces. Happy?”

“I think _that_ will be perfectly sufficient, thank you, Mr Stark. Agents, General, if you are all satisfied? This can only be considered beyond proof that the present person, my client, is indeed Sergeant James Barnes.”

“This does seem fairly incontestable. Captain Wright?”

“General, I would agree that this is all in order. I’m not a geneticist but assuming our experts agree with your methodology...”

The Asset keeps its head down but Steve is speaking, close by. It zones in on his voice through all the others. “Tony, when did you...”

“Hush. Billionaire, supersonic flying suit, best lab partner in the world...any of this ringing a bell?”

“Well, whatever you did. Thank you.”

“Yeah, well, don’t thank me yet. I did my one altruistic good deed for the year last June. You know I’m here for one reason. I need to know what he knows.”

“Nat asked him. I’m sorry, Tony...he doesn’t remember. Siberia, the mission in December ’91, any of it. I think he maybe recognised the name Howard Stark but if there was anything else in there he just couldn’t articulate it.”

“Yeah, I know. I was watching.” The mech tech has raised his voice. “Not truly a surprise that a guy with a vocabulary comparable to that of the average toddler or a poorly trained chimpanzee can’t give you detailed mission reports. Lucky for you, you have me. And lucky for me, I have this.”

An object thuds down onto the table. The Soldier gives another violent start.

“Oops,” says the mech tech. 

“Stay calm, Yasha,” says Dr Pedley.

“Mr Stark, care to explain?” The Soldier thinks it’s one of the uniforms asking the questions but it accidently focuses too much on the breath going in and out of the lungs, trying to calm the rush of air, the sensation of the blood swirling through the body’s veins and next thing it knows, the handlers and the mech tech have descended into arguing once more.

“Mr Stark. Captain. Maybe we should take a short recess and discuss this proposal properly. We have been here for several hours...”

“Hill, there’s nothing to discuss. I am not letting anyone experiment on him and that’s the end of it.”

“I said ‘prototype’, Cap, not experiment. It’s supposed to be therapeutic!”

“You also just said this PUKE, or whatever it’s called, was unfinished and untested. I know 'experimental' when I hear it.”

“That’s BARF, New Guy. And, yeah, its full functionality might be a few months from completion but the memory imaging works perfectly. We’ll see whatever he’s remembering. It’s not going to do him any harm.”

“His brain is like scrambled egg right now, Tony, you sure you wanna see that?”

“Clint, that’s not the point!”

Steve is unhappy. That is the first thing the Soldier realises. His voice is unhappy and Clint is not to blame. This experiment, whatever it is, is making him unhappy.

“This is a very bad idea.” Dr Pedley is not happy either. “You may cause irreparable damage to his psyche.”

“What kind of irreparable damage?”

“The bullshit kind," says the mech tech, sounding annoyed. _"Irreparable damage,_ my ass. He’s not going to be seeing or hearing anything he doesn’t already see every time you yell questions at him. It’s just, using the BARF, now he won’t have to articulate describing it too. We’ll just see everything he remembers.”

_“Sir, Agent Lyall’s aide is outside with an urgent message for him.”_

“Button it, JARVIS. It’ll keep.”

"The morality of using untested technology on a detainee notwithstanding, this would be a gross breach of my client’s privacy. He will have no ability to control what is pulled out of his mind to be paraded in front of a roomful of strangers. That is a very different concept to a debrief which we entered into voluntarily.”

“I agree, Mr Boulos. Yasha- that is, Mr Barnes- is in far too fragile a state to attempt something like this. Just thinking of those memories has been difficult enough for him without reliving them too.”

“Excuse me, doctor; you’re the one who said he was ready for this in the first place.”

“A recommendation which was clearly a mistake.”

“Tony. I know how important this is to you, but-"

“How can you possibly know how important this is to me, Steve? _He killed my mom._ We need the information he knows in full, not drip-fed one monosyllabic grunt at a time. Rhodey, back me up here.”

“Tony’s right: he could help save a lot of lives, Cap. If we can get the location of just one more HYDRA base...”

“Colonel Rhodes-”

_“Yes.”_

The Soldier doesn’t realise that the word came from its own mouth, until everything around it falls silent. 

“Bucky, what did you say? Did you...?”

“I’ll do it.” The Soldier says. The voice is harsh and dry in its throat. It’s been some time since it spoke aloud, hours maybe. It flicks the eyes up, a lightning glance. Three uniforms and the suits are still seated, still watching. Nat has her hand at her side, ready. Clint the STRIKE commander and Sam are standing by Steve and opposite them are the mech tech Tony and the uniform called Rhodey. Dr Pedley’s mouth is in a thin line. 

“No, Buck,” Steve says gently, ducking down at the Soldier’s side. “You don’t understand what’s going on...”

“You want to see what’s in my head. See if it can save people. I’ll do it.”

There is still silence.

“Agent Romanov? Team Cap?” asks Maria, who is _In Charge._

“It’s his choice,” says Nat. She shrugs, sounds like she doesn’t care. She’s watching like a hawk.

“I still advise against it.” The lawyer. Mr Boulos. “But if James and his guardian both consent, then...”

“It’s my choice,” echoes the Soldier. Steve has said he wants Bucky to make choices. Sweatshirts, drinks, books, TV programmes. Those choices were meaningless. This one though. _Could help save a lot of lives._ And it will make Steve happy and the Soldier doesn’t understand why that matters, it shouldn’t fucking matter, but it does. If the Asset makes a choice, then Steve won’t stop it. That's what he wants.

“All right,” says Steve, with a sigh. “Looks like we’re doing this.”

Time passes. The case is opened and equipment pulled out. Wires connected up. JARVIS speaks and Tony speaks back. Dr Pedley says they are being foolish and dangerous. The Soldier thinks Steve agrees but he doesn't say stop. The technician fits bulky goggles onto the Soldier’s face. The electrical contacts lie heavy and smooth against the Asset’s cheekbones, forehead, cradling the skull. The Asset closes the ( _your)_ eyes.

“All this tech is gonna fit into a stylish pair of shades when it’s done,” says the mech tech. He’s close, touching the back of the Asset’s head, but his voice is soft, softer than the Soldier has heard it. “And there’ll be a full VR projection suite, not a crappy flat screen. This is gonna help people. I promise, it'll be worth it. Wait, why am I even talking to you? You’re a trained ape without the training; you probably have no idea what I’m saying. God, I hope this isn’t a mistake.”

It’s a mistake. It’s a mistake. The chair, the wires, the restraints...The Soldier is afraid. 

“Steve,” says the Asset, reaching out blindly. “Steve.”

Footsteps crossing over. “I’m here, Buck,” says Steve’s voice. He brushes against the Asset’s flesh arm so the Asset knows where he is without too much contact. “You’re not alone. Whatever you remember, I’ll be here with you.”

“Ты уверен, Зимний?” asks Nat from across the room. “Ты же знаешь, еще не поздно.”

“It’s my choice,” says the Asset again. It’s not fully sure it knows what that means, but it knows it’s _important._ This machine, experiment, whatever it is, will make Steve happy and Tony happy and the suits and the uniforms and all of them. And if Steve was wrong, and it is about to be wiped...well. It was the Soldier’s choice this time. The Soldier will do anything for Steve.

“Punch it, Chewie,” says Stark, and there’s a dull vibration around the goggles over its eyes but, surprisingly, no pain. The Asset stares into a black well.

“Mission report,” Nat’s voice says and its thoughts fly away. 

And as her prompts creep into its ears, the Asset remembers. Not everything. But flashes. Scenes, moments. Lacking context, lacking chronology. Shards of existence. Not everything. Maybe not enough for the men in the suits. Too much for the Asset.

Missions. Briefings. Papers bound into brown envelopes. Learn it. _You don’t speak English any more._ Pain. No, the missions. That’s right, focus. Three targets in the airport, _bam bam bam._ A mansion in the hills, make it look like an accident. Pitch black, knife in the sentries’ throats. No sound. In Vladivostok, extraction only, no deaths, but the child wouldn’t be silent. Как вас зовут?City streets, rooftops, jungle, tundra. Tear the steering wheel from his hands, reach out and take the M14. _If you are captured you are to self-terminate immediately. Understand?_ Still and silent, still and silent. This, it excels at. Breathe out. Squeeze the trigger. The Soldier will wait for them, out in the snow, for twenty-eight hours. Frostbite, lost three toes. Two right, one left. Then the smell of burnt meat on the wind as the chalet burns. The toes all grew back. The couplings of the train in Crimea snapped and tore off two of the metal fingers; the mech techs were furious. Pain. This man is bad, he is evil, he hurts children. You can save them if you kill him. _Pain!_

No, focus. 

The missions. A dark lane, a bike. Smoke from the damaged engine. Metal fingers crushing into pale, blue-lined flesh. A voice _‘...Barnes? God, no…’_ Then, it’s done. It takes the case and leaves. Transportation in back seats, cages, aircraft. Once in the cargo hold where it was hard to breathe. Set the charges at the embassy. Not the Soldier’s usual methods but maximum casualties are required and it can adapt. It locks the fire escapes and is extracted and wiped hours before the explosion is timed to go off. Never learns if the mission was a success. It must be, for it has never failed. Days and days in the jungle, the heat, the smell. Kill anyone you see, either side. Sow our chaos. Don’t be seen. Kill and kill and kill. The church tower, picking off the men in the square. The mountain ridge, black and blue in the cold desert night. Lie still and silent. Scope at the eye. Flare of a cigarette. Calculate the distance, the curvature, the wind. Shoot. Count slow; one, two, three, four, five, six...the man falls, the cigarette goes out. In London, the handler suggests a blade through the ribs. No. Poison pellet in the leg. Precise. Certain. You will stay out of my way. On the mountain road, shoot out the tyres. The car goes down but the Widow rescues the engineer. Easy to shoot him through her body. She was not the mission. If she survives it is not the Asset’s concern. In Nigeria, extraction is late. Mission assistance required. Takes a blade in the liver, bleeding into the abdominal cavity. Ten hours to walk. The med techs are furious.

Nat wants to know about bases now. Where the handlers gave it its orders. Where it received its training, its corrections. Who it saw there. The Asset does what she orders and it remembers rooms and walls and cold concrete floors with drains in them. Maps, passwords, co-ordinates. Faces. Hands shake on the trigger but _if you do it wrong again, you will be punished._ The handlers talk over it like it doesn’t exist. Road signs out of windows flash past. Red hair, hard curious eyes in young faces. They learn exactly what the Soldier teaches them. Practice, train, kill. One day, they will be better than the Soldier is because they aren't afraid. They never learned to be afraid. Sometimes it sees the outside of the bases. Snow, trees. Safe houses in cities, in barns, or on ships. Places they put it into storage, in the ice. The bank, where they had a Chair. Vision always goes first, current crackling down the spine, hands spasm. They forgot the mouthguard once and it cracked a molar. They ripped the tooth out with pliers but it grew back too. Skin, bones, toes, teeth – it all grows back. All but the arm, all but the person inside. Waking up on the cell floor, on an operating table. Hunger gnawing, alive, like a creature. The first prosthetic tore out of his shoulder when he stood up. Too heavy. Crack of a whip. Defrost. _Stop._ Arterial blood spraying across a wall. _You did this._ _You did this, they tell him,_ but he cannot remember. _See the blood on your clothes? The knife in your hand?_ A sheen of oil on a wet road. _Я не понимаю._ Frost on his eyelids, pouring into his lungs. The buzz of the circular saw, the black room, the void where there was no sound, nothing, where his own heartbeat drove him insane. Screaming and screaming until blood came out of the mouth. _Stop._ The cell, cold, shivers, his shoulder stinks of rot. _Help me._ Defrost. The Chair. _I don’t want to see this continued defiance. Make him comply._ The doctor, that sick fuck with the white coat, goggles, gloves, metal spike. Paralysed, can’t move. _Оставь меня в покое!_ The glimmer of light off the spike as it approaches the eye. They tried again and again but the frontal lobe always grows back. _Faszinierend._ Stop _._ Defrost. The Chair. _Стоп._ Stop!

_“Captain Rogers: Sergeant Barnes’ vitals are dangerously elevated.”_

“Bucky, you can stop. Please stop.”

Someone said it. Make the motion. Chop onto the table. Stop. _Stop._

The goggles come off. The pads and the wires are peeled away. The eyes blink, bright light streaming in, burning through salt. There’s a handprint in the edge of the solid table. Chunks torn away by fingers, by a left hand. The Asset's hand is tied down. Steve did this. The Asset looks up. Faces staring at it, pale. Eyes wide. Hands over mouths. Steve’s face is wet, he has been crying. The room is emptier. Tony is gone. So have Clint, Mr Boulos, an agent, and two soldiers. Sam and Steve, Hill and Nat are still there. Dr Pedley is still there; staring, eyes bright.

“Christ,” someone says into the silence.

“Bucky,” Steve says. His voice catches, broken. The Asset frowns. He doesn’t sound happy. The Asset did this for Steve to be happy. “Bucky. I’m so sorry. I’m...”

“JARVIS,” says Maria. “Please tell the others we’re done if they’re ready to come back in. This is over.”

_“I have informed them, Director Hill. Agent Lyall, your aide is quite insistent that he speaks to you.”_

“I’ll be out directly.”

The door opens and people come into the room. The Asset looks down. There is talking and words, low and angry, that fly over its head. It focuses on the touch of Steve’s hand, a smooth circle on its right palm; the skin on the back of the hand is torn away, bitten, bleeding. The Asset has ripped a hole completely through the sleeve of the hoodie.

The Soldier looks up. Seven people have come back into the room. Clint and Tony and Mr Boulos and two soldiers and two agents. One new agent. They look pale, shaken. Tony doesn’t look at the Asset, just fiddles with the equipment. The new agent, the one who wasn't here before, is leaning down talking to one of the suits. He is holding an electronic tablet in one hand and the other hand is in his pocket.

The Soldier stands up. 

Its left arm is still cuffed down. It rips it free by tearing the restraint plate straight out of the wood. The Soldier shoves Steve away and dives across the table. It knocks the new agent backwards. He is on the floor and the Soldier is on top of him. Someone is yelling, far off, and the Soldier clamps his left hand around the man’s face. The man is screaming but the soldier closes the metal fingers in one powerful squeeze and the skull pops beneath its hand. Red and grey bursts out in clumps across the Soldier, the corpse, the floor. There is shouting, screaming. The Soldier stands up. It is ready for its next order.

It turns and Nat is there. She says “Cпу́тник.”

Emergency shutdown. The Asset drops. 

As it falls the Asset sees the dead man’s hand open. A small, grey cylinder falls out. The cylinder rolls clinking across the floor and comes to a stop against a chair leg. 

Then, everything goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit. Got. REAL.  
> Two chapters to go...
> 
> Thanks for the comments, y'all. They're great to read.


	14. Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta read by [theAsh0](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theAsh0/pseuds/theAsh0).

It didn’t take long - just over three hours in fact - for Hill and her team of spooks to find out that Gary Stalewski, trusted senior aide to Agent Lyall of the CIA for six years, was an alias of one John Amsel, who had been operating as a HYDRA double agent for fifteen. The man had entered Stark Tower with the other members of the debriefing task force as a standard part of Agent Lyall’s staff and had waited quietly and unobtrusively in an anteroom with the other aides. Then he had simply followed Agent Carter and Tony Stark when they returned to the briefing room at the end of the memory visualisation display. The urgent message for Agent Lyall had turned out to be  _ Hail Hydra _ and the ceramic cylinder Gary Stalewski had been holding as he died was a sealed aerosol container of highly concentrated nerve agent which, if released, would have killed everybody in the room and possibly the entire floor of the building in under eight minutes. 

The Winter Soldier had burst his head like a ripe grape.

No-one knew if Bucky had recognised the HYDRA agent, had seen the cylinder and was therefore protecting the other occupants of the room, or had merely been lashing out in some kind of trauma-induced rage. Bucky himself wasn’t capable of telling them; Nat’s trigger word (and yes they were absolutely going to be talking about the fact that she had known a command that could instantly incapacitate Bucky and hadn’t told Steve about it) had dropped him like a sack of bricks and Bucky was currently lying on a bed in the med bay in a severe catatonic stupor . Dr Pedley was monitoring him but didn't know when he would wake up. If he stirred at all, she’d call Steve immediately.

Maria Hill and her army/CIA task force had dispersed to make the most of the information they’d got from the Soldier’s memories and, once he’d no longer been required to verbalize, it was a lot. Images of faces, locations, weapons, maps, co-ordinates. Steve just hopes Nat and Clint can put their talents to good use to ensure sure all the faces in those images are dead. That might make the horrible sick feeling inside him feel slightly better, but it won’t stop him seeing out through Bucky’s eyes every time he closes his – the surgical masks, blood, the Chair. That fucking  _ ice pick _ . 

Tony’s disappeared too, quite probably on another bender as JARVIS won’t let any of the Avengers into the lab to see him. Steve would be more concerned but Pepper and Rhodey were permitted into the sanctum, so he just hopes they can stop Tony from complete self destruction. 

Which leaves Steve with nothing to do but disappear into the gym and beat the shit out of Tony’s range of tactical training bots. It doesn’t help, but it at least burns off some of that nervous energy which has just been building and building about the fact that he can’t  _ do anything. _ It’s not just the memories they saw through Tony's machine, although that horror show was bad enough. It’s not the death of Gary Stalewski _aka_ John Amsel - if he was HYDRA he deserved every bit of it and more. It wasn’t even the sudden, shocking violence of his death, when Bucky has been so scared and sick and non-threatening for weeks. It’s that Bucky was the only one who saw the danger. Steve has been relying on his instincts to keep him alive for so long, and he was in a room of people with instincts as good as his, or even better – Nat, Clint, Sam, Tony, even Rhodey and Sharon who he doesn’t know that well yet. They’d all gotten used to the fact they were the Avengers, that they lived in the most secure building in the world, that Tony’s inventions will keep them safe, that JARVIS is always watching. And it had almost cost them all their lives. 

Until Bucky had saved them. 

It’s a while before he notices someone else has entered the training gym, and that alone tells him who it is. Steve ignores her for several more minutes, dispatching three more drones, before he says “JARVIS, end programme.”

The undamaged drones fly back into their containment units. Steve picks up a broom and starts to sweep up the debris of bits of robot. There are bots to do this too, but sometimes he likes to clear up a mess the old fashioned way.

Nat stays where she is, perched on the edge of a weights bench, watching.

“Where’s Sam?” she asks at last.

“Out on a run. I didn’t want to talk,” Steve says, shortly. The implication that he still doesn’t is clear, but Nat seems oblivious.

“You mad at him?”

“No.”

“You mad at me?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know.”

“Steve. It was better me doing the questioning than anyone else. You know that.” 

“Guess I’m just mad at everyone right now.”

She is silent for a while, clearly waiting for him to ask his question. Eventually he gives in.

“That...trigger word you used.”

“Was that a question?”

“Does it need to be?”

She swings her legs, looking at him with calculation.

“When I was twelve,” she says. “They brought a man in to train us. The Winter Soldier.”

Steve nods. He’s seen the roomful of thin, eager faces in the Soldier’s memories. It hadn’t been hard to guess that those were the girls of the Red Room.

“Tony told me,” he said.

“We were terrified of him,” Nat continues. “Well, as much as we knew how to be, anyway. He was a ghost story, a monster they used to keep us in line. He was...not what I expected. He taught us for a year, on and off. Hand to hand combat, knife skills, infiltration - how Americans talked and thought and what they ate for breakfast. He knew where to hide a knife blade so that it wouldn't be found, knew how you could win a fight, even if you were 90 pounds lighter and ten inches shorter than your opponent. I was the best, of course, but I think we all loved him a little bit. We called him  _ Yasha. _ And he never once shouted, never once hurt any of the girls. Even when he fought us, even when his handlers screamed at him to punish Alina for her failure, ordered him to beat her, kill her. He didn’t. They took him away after that.

'He came back when I was 16 and by then he was different, little more than a machine. He didn’t remember us, wouldn’t speak or look at us except when we were fighting. One of the girls didn’t come back from endurance training and they said he'd killed her. I believed it. By then he was teaching us sniper’s skills, how to be silent and still, for hours. I hated that part. Later, he and I were paired on several missions. Usually I was distract and data retrieval, he stayed long distance and kept the exits clear. Sometimes I was back up only while he did...more hands-on wetwork. Once we were told to pose as a couple to infiltrate an event. They made me his Field Handler, and that’s when they gave me the shutdown code. I didn’t have to use it, but the mission...it did not go well. They should have known better – they’d scooped too much person out of him by then for the Soldier to convincingly blend in anywhere more alive than a waxwork museum, even with a Widow on his arm. They took him away after that mission. Clint found me six months later.”

“You didn’t tell me.” Steve says. “Didn’t you think I might want to know all that?”

“Maybe. But you don’t have a right to everything in my life, Rogers. I knew him too, remember? And you got him back. He doesn’t even know me anymore.”

There was silence for some time.

“I’m sorry I had to use the code,” Nat says at last, “But there wasn’t much choice. He’s never going to trust me again.”

“I know you didn’t want to. I just wish all those others hadn’t heard it. The CIA guys, the army... I don’t like the thought of more people being able to control him.”

“They can’t,” Nat said. “The emergency shutdown triggers work only once.”

“Good.”

“Though it’s highly likely there are more. Triggers, that is.”

“Son of a...”

There is a soft cough by the door and Bruce is standing there. He's twisting his hands, nervous.

“I heard about what happened,” he says. “Tony kicked me out of the lab. Are you guys okay?”

“I’m...” Steve says, and sighs out the  _ fine _ . “I’m not sure what I am these days.”

“Now you sound like a Black Widow,” says Nat, with a ghost of a smile.

Bruce comes over to them. He usually avoids the training room and the range, in case the Other Guy gets the wrong idea about simulated combat. 

“What happened?” He says. “I mean, how did a HYDRA agent even get in through the door? The tower is meant to be safe. That’s why Winter’s here. That’s why  _ I’m  _ here.”

“We got complacent,” Nat says, bluntly. “We got comfortable and lazy, even after everything that happened with SHIELD.”

Steve nods. “Nat’s right. I got too focused on Bucky and forgot there was a bigger picture here. We’re fighting an enemy who could be anywhere, could be  _ everywhere _ . We have to be more careful. This is not happening again.”

“Okay,” says Bruce. “So what do we do now? Winter just killed someone in front of a lot of witnesses - Pepper is still trying to find someone discreet to clean chunks of assassin out of the conference room carpet. I know it turned out to be self defence, but did Winter even know about the nerve gas when he attacked the guy? Is that, I mean, is he going to get into trouble for that? And was Winter the target or was it everyone else? And if it was him, how did they even know he was here?”

“The aide, Stalewski. JARVIS said he was trying to get in before Tony activated the BARF.” Steve recalls. 

Nat narrows her eyes. “Maybe he was trying to prevent us from seeing what Bucky remembered. But he attacked anyway, even after we’d seen the memory recall.”

“Perhaps he was-” Steve begins and then he’s cut off by JARVIS.

_ “Captain Rogers.” _

It’s impossible for the AI to sound alarmed, but the moment the voice sounds from the speakers, Steve knows something has happened.

“What’s wrong? Is it Bucky?”

_ “There has been an incident. You should make your way to the rooftop terrace immediately.” _

“The _roof?_ What the hell...?” murmurs Bruce, but Steve is already out of the room and on his way towards the elevators. The other two are close on his heels.

“JARVIS, what’s going on?” Nat says, as they run.

_ “Sergeant Barnes has woken up,"  _ JARVIS responds.  _ “My sensors indicate he has left the medical bay and is on the roof terrace. I cannot be sure what his intentions are.” _

_ Oh God, no...  _ Steve makes it into the elevator first, barely waiting long enough for the other two to pile in before he is slamming the button for the roof. 

“He’s not supposed to be able to go anywhere in the building without someone with him,” Steve states, panic starting to bubble in his gut. “How the hell did he get up to the roof?”

_ “He did not leave the medical bay alone,” _ states JARVIS.  _ “Dr Pedley is with him and therefore no security alerts were raised. She currently seems to be attempting to calm him down.” _

“Dr Pedley is the psychiatrist, right?” says Bruce. “He’s not alone, then. That’s something.”

“JARVIS, get Tony up here.”

_ “I have already alerted Sir,” _ JARVIS tells them.  _ “He and Agent Hawkeye are on their way but are presently one minute and 15 seconds behind you.” _

The elevators have never seemed so slow. After what seems an age, the doors slide gently open and Steve shoulders out, sprints up the last few steps of the roof access and bursts out of the door into the cold, wintry sunlight. He just has time to take in the silhouette of Bucky and Emma Pedley by the rail on the far side of the terrace, hear the doctor cry out “Yasha, no!” before Bucky raises his arm towards Steve and two gunshots crack out. Sparks fly as bullets ricochet off the door by Steve’s shoulder.

“Shit!” Bruce dives back through the doorway, out of range. Nat and Steve throw themselves to each side, ducking behind pipes and vents. 

“Bruce?”

“All clear,” Bruce calls back. Hulk is under control, for now.

“Damn it, I’m not even armed,” Steve yells to Nat. “Are you?”

Nat tosses a knife blade over to him and Steve catches it. A knife isn’t a great option in a firefight, but it’s better than no option at all.

“I don’t like this,” Nat shouts back as Bucky fires again, the shot ringing off a nearby pipe. She is holding another knife raised. “Where was he hiding a gun?”

Steve doesn’t answer. “We’ll rush him on three,” he says, and on the count they leap out of their cover and across the roof. No more shots come and the rail where Bucky had stood is empty. 

No, no, no...

Steve sprints for the edge of the roof, desperately looking over the rail, but he can't see anything below.

JARVIS’s voice fills the space.

_ “Sergeant Barnes has taken Dr Pedley and is heading down the west stairwell.” _

The west stairwell that leads down to the floor below the terrace on the west side of the tower.

“Come on!” Nat yells, and they’re running again. Steve reaches the door first; it’s been punched to metal splinters in one blow of the cybernetic arm. Inside is the stairwell; Steve doesn’t bother with the stairs and leaps straight over the rail, dropping into the central shaft. He counts one second of fall and then kicks off the wall, grabbing the rail as it flies past, vaulting back onto the staircase outside the door for floor 93. The Avengers’ quinjet hangar.

_ "I believe Sergeant Barnes is attempting to leave the building.” _ JARVIS announces, calmly.

Steve doesn’t wait for the others. He shoves his head and shoulders through the entrance to the hangar and pulls back as another bullet chips the door frame by his knee. 

“Bucky!” Steve calls. “It’s okay. It’s just Steve. You’re safe. You’re safe.”

Movement behind echoing in the stairwell. The other Avengers incoming. Back up. 

“I’m stepping into the room now," Steve says. "So don’t shoot me.” 

Steve throws caution to the wind and walks out of the door into the hangar.

The quinjet’s ramp is down. Bucky has Emma Pedley held in front of him, and despite the fact she’s no more than five foot six, Bucky is crouched and almost completely hidden behind the shield of her body. The pistol is resting over her shoulder, aimed steadily at Steve.

Steve moves closer. “It’s all right, Bucky,” he says, dropping the knife, raising his hands. “Whatever you think has happened...we can fix it. You just woke up disoriented. You’re safe here, I promise.”

“I don’t think he knows you right now, captain,” the doctor says. She’s pale but her voice never wavers, despite how terrified she must be. She has her hands raised. They’re trembling. 

“I don’t know you,” Bucky confirms. He yanks Emma back by the arm round her neck and they step back onto the ramp.

“I can’t get a shot,” says a voice at Steve’s side. It’s Clint, bow drawn, desperately looking for an opening. He moves right several steps. “Anything I do I’m going to hit her.”

Nat circles round to Steve’s left, knife raised. They’re closing in.

“Bucky,” Steve says, stepping forward again, taking point. “Please, let Emma go. She’s scared, can’t you see she’s scared? She only wanted to help you. I’ll come with you instead, if you want to leave. We can go, if you want, right now.” 

“It’s not working...” warns Bruce.

Bruce is right. Bucky hasn’t stopped moving, dragging Emma back one step at a time into the quinjet. Where the hell is Sam? If anyone could negotiate a hostage rescue, it would be Sam.

“JARVIS, seal the blast doors.” Tony strides into the room behind them; jeans, tshirt. No armoured suit. He stops suddenly at the sight ahead. 

“Двери остаются открытыми,” says Bucky, but his tone is dead and his voice is colder than permafrost. “Я убью ее.”

He must tighten his grip because Emma makes a little gasp.

“Tony, don’t,” says Nat. “He will kill her.” She is certain.

The Winter Soldier and his hostage are almost at the top of the ramp now. The gun in Bucky’s hand jerks away from the oncoming Avengers and the barrel is rammed into the side of Dr Pedley’s skull instead. She flinches.

“Двери остаются открытыми,”  Bucky repeats. He is looking Steve straight in the eyes but there’s  _ nothing _ behind them. Steve’s heart is breaking.

Tony grits his teeth. “JARVIS. Do as he says.”

_ “The hangar doors are open, Sir.” _

“Bucky, please. Please let her go,” says Steve, but the Soldier slams his hand to the side onto the ramp controls. He watches Steve through his cold eyes as the ramp closes, the gun never wavering from Emma Pedley’s head. 

The second the ramp is shut, the engines begin to power up.

“Clint, start firing,” Steve yells, running forward. “Anything that will cut those engines or stop them taking off. Tony, get that ramp open! Nat-”

A muted cry bursts from the ship’s loudspeakers. A woman in pain. Dr Pedley. The cry is muffled as if she is trying to suppress the sound, before it descends into sobs.

_ “Я убью ее,” _ says the voice of the Soldier again, and finally, Steve believes it.

“Stop,” he orders, voice thin and weak. “Everyone, stand down.”

Clint fires once more then lowers his bow. Nat drops back down from the plane’s wing onto the hangar floor.

The jet rises up three feet off the floor with a blast of heat and turns slightly to face the doors. Steve can see into the cockpit now, sees Bucky’s dead, dead eyes as he glances up from the controls, and behind him, Emma Pedley’s pale face. 

“We’ll find you,” Steve says, “I swear.” He isn’t sure which one of them he’s speaking to. 

Then the engines roar, and the craft shoots forward and out of the hangar doors and disappears across the city.

Bucky is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those comments from last week; man, I cracked up. Cheers guys!  
> Betcha all hate me now though...
> 
> EDIT:  
> A few of you have commented below saying only one chapter left? And I went away and had a rethink and realised that you were right, the last 'chapter' as I wrote it was far too long and so I've just split it into two chapters. This delays the end a little but I think it makes the story better....


	15. Sam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta read by [theAsh0](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theAsh0/pseuds/theAsh0).
> 
> I know last time I said one chapter left, but I decided there was so much to say it was better split into two. So still one more to go after this.

Sam had left the tower still lingering under a dark cloud of horror and shock and revulsion. He runs and runs, hoping the soothing beat of his feet on the sidewalk will drive out the sights he’s just witnessed. The stream of images that had spilled out of Barnes’ shattered memories had lasted slightly under ten minutes, but it had felt like a horrible lifetime – snapshots from seven decades of torture and violence and suffering, condensed down into a handy little slideshow, and then topped off with the show-stopper; a hands-on, fully immersive display of what happens if you squeeze a man’s head until his brain bursts. 

It isn’t working. Each footfall now sounds like a whip crack or a blow, each draw of breath in his lungs reminds him of blood frothing from open mouths, each stranger and pedestrian he passes is a target in the crosshairs. That’s what it was like to see through the Winter Soldier’s eyes. To see firsthand the Starks’ car crunch into the tree, to see the hand of the reach out before him to crush Howard’s skull and Maria’s throat. It was no wonder Tony had bolted to throw up. Sam had made it through the entire show, but Tony was far from the only one who hadn’t, and Sam couldn’t feel anything but slightly envious for the ones who had walked out and spared themselves what the Soldier had lived. Sometimes, misery shared is just more misery, and besides, there had been something horribly voyeuristic about tearing open Barnes’s mind and dragging those images of his personal hell out for the inspection of strangers. Another violation. But even when he’d been close to blowing chunks himself, Sam had seen the set of Steve’s shoulders and he knew. He couldn’t leave Steve there to face that alone. 

So maybe the run was helping, because although the horror and the images themselves haven’t faded, and he will no doubt be visiting them again in his nightmares for the next few years, the running has grounded him. Those horrors lie in the past. Yes, Barnes has suffered, terribly, but it is over. He is safe now, and free of HYDRA’s puppet strings. They just have to do everything they can to drag him back to the light. And then to bury anything left of HYDRA deep, deep in the ground.

After a couple of hours, his broken wrist is aching like crazy and his legs start to shake and then he remembers he hasn’t eaten anything since breakfast. Sam takes that as a sign to turn back towards the tower. If he’s lucky, by now General Brantley, Agent Lyall and the rest of the goon squad will have left and Steve and Tony will have calmed down. At the very least the dead guy will be gone; Sam’s certain one of the perks of being rich must be knowing who to pay to get rid of a corpse quickly. But really he just hopes Nat’s trigger code will have worn off and Winter will be awake. Even a monosyllabic answer and averted eye contact from Winter would be enough right now, just to reassure Sam they haven’t made the poor brain-damaged bastard any worse with that stupid, ill-advised debrief and everything came after.

When he arrives back at Stark Tower, the general miasma of horror and disgust has indeed vanished, but in its place is a sense of urgent action. Sam takes the elevator up to the Avenger’s hub as JARVIS instructs and arrives to find the room a whirlwind of activity. Steve, who is in uniform, is in the middle of an argument with Tony, who isn’t. Pepper and Rhodey are both pacing and issuing orders into cell phones, while at the computer bank, Maria and three ex-SHIELD tech staff are typing furiously while calling out various suggestions that Bruce is cross-referencing against a holographic map. Sam spots Nat and Clint through the door into the armoury, hurriedly stacking up weapons, tac gear and med kits. It’s clear something has happened. The Avengers have been mobilised. It takes Sam a moment of checking the corners of the room to notice the absence of Steve’s usual shadow. Barnes isn't here.

“What’s going on?” Sam says to Clint as the man is bundling a set of arrows into a quiver. 

“Sam! Good, you made it. Thought we were gonna have to leave without saying goodbye. Don’t you ever check your cell?” 

“It was on silent. What’s happened; where’s Winter?”

“Barnes has gone,” Nat says, shortly. She throws a couple of grenades to Clint who tucks them into a pocket.

“Gone, what do you mean, gone?”

“He took his doctor hostage at gunpoint and stole a quinjet.”

“ _What!?_ He didn't hurt her, did he? Is she okay?”

“He still has her,” Clint says, grimly. “We’re tracking the jet now but he has a good 15 minutes head start.”

“Nat, fire it up,” Steve calls over. “We have to go.”

“On it. Two minutes, Steve,” she says and dashes out. 

Sam helps Clint shove the equipment cases the pair of them have gathered into the small equipment elevator that will take everything up to the hangar and then he too is running out of the door.

Behind Sam, the argument between Steve and Tony seems to be reaching a conclusion. 

“There just isn’t time for Rhodey to go back to Edwards for the armour. Tony, please. We need you. I need you.”

“Fine,” Tony grumbles but he’s already moving over to the red and gold podium in the centre of the room. Mechanical arms drop from the roof and rise out of the floor, slapping armour plates into position. 

“Look,” says Steve, “if you’re worried about another congressional hearing I promise I will tell them this was all my fault.”

Tony snorts. “Congress? Like hell. There's only one person I’m afraid of.”

They’re on the far side of the room and Pepper Potts is still on the phone. She could not possibly have heard Tony, but right then she turns and gives them her sweetest, most knowing smile. In that moment, Sam is kind of afraid of her too. 

The Iron Man armour is almost half in place already, in just a few seconds. Sam tears his eyes away from the incredible machinery in action as Steve turns to him. 

“Sam.”

“What the hell happened, Steve? Was it the trigger word?”

“We don’t know,” says Steve. He looks wrecked, but the Captain America suit is holding him up, forcing him to stand tall, the shield on his back keeping his shoulders straight. He’s an icon. It’s clear enough to Sam that Steve’s tap-dancing on quicksand right now just to keep his head up in all this madness, but the uniform is his symbol, his obligation. He will do what he needs to do. 

“We don’t know,” Steve repeats, “but I have to stop him. I have to get him back.”

 _“We’re good to go, Cap,”_ comes Clint’s voice through the speakers. The jet is prepped and ready.

“Rhodey says your airspace is clear,” Pepper says quickly, leaning over. “And Maria is sourcing some unofficial back up in case of an emergency evac. Make sure you don’t need it, Tony.”

“We won’t,” promises Iron Man, and she quickly kisses the top of his head. He nods and the helmet clicks into place around his jaw and face. “We won't. I’m invincible, remember? Come on, Cap, let’s move. Catch you later, Wilson.”

“Oh no, you don’t,” says Sam. “The hell with that. I’m coming too.”

“Tony hasn’t even started repairing your wings yet,” says Steve, apologetically, “And your arm is still healing...”

“Do I look like just a pair of wings to you?” snaps Sam. “Besides, arm’s in a cast.”

“You’ll need gear...”

Sam had already clocked a stack of SHIELD surplus tac gear on shelves in the armoury. He snatches up a set of black combat gear – pants, jacket and size 10 boots – and then grabs a set of body armour off a rail. He throws the lot at Steve, and then helps himself to two Glock 19s, a M4A1 and Ka-Bar to go with the shitload of ammo he saw Black Widow and Hawkeye carrying earlier. He turns back to Steve and Tony.

“Any more objections?”

There aren’t. 

The jet is far bigger than the ones Sam had seen on the Insight helicarriers, and there’s no shortage of space inside, even for six of them. Clint is flying, which leaves Tony, Steve, Nat and Bruce to come up with some sort of attack plan. Sam leaves them to it while he throws on the tac gear and armour over his running clothes. The jacket is stiff and brand new and it’s the strangest feeling being back in uniform, back in a team, but for the first time that doesn't feel like a betrayal. Despite the critical nature of the situation, his fear for Winter and Emma, Sam can’t help the little thrill of childish awe. He’s on a mission with the Avengers _._ Riley would have freaking _loved_ this. 

Sam recovers from his tiny fanboy freak-out by strapping on all his guns and his knife and the earpiece Nat gives him until he is feeling more like a soldier again and less like a random civilian who accidentally stumbled onto the wrong plane.

“You have to be ready to face the fact that he might do anything.” Bruce is saying. “We have no idea where he thinks he is right now, or why he reverted to being a HYDRA puppet with no warning.”

“What the hell happened back there?” says Sam, stepping into the conversation. Stark offers a bag of pistachios from which he gladly grabs a handful.

“JARVIS, playback this morning’s Great Escape,” Tony instructs, and the tablet computer in his hand suddenly bursts into life. He holds it up and Sam gets a JARVIS-eye view of Bucky prodding Emma Pedley out of the med bay at gunpoint and into an elevator, her pleading quietly the whole way for him to stay calm, to remember where he is. The rooftop shootout is a more limited angle but he sees Steve and Nat chase Bucky across the roof, Bruce, Clint and Tony just behind, before the view jumps to the hangar, and Bucky is dragging the doctor onto the quinjet. The doctor screams in pain, the Avengers fall back and the jet takes off.

“The Soldier disabled the internal trackers but Clint got one onto the hull just as they were taking off,” Nat says. “We’re tracking them west but beyond that we don’t know where he’s going.”

“It must have been that trigger word that Nat used,” Steve guesses. “He came round, scared, disoriented. Fell back on what he knew.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Nat says, though Sam can see she is doubting it herself. “It was a shutdown code, not a reset. Single function, single use.”

“Yeah well, wish you’d saved that single use for when he was shooting at my employees,” mutters Tony. "A dead CIA agent is a CIA problem but Emma is on my payroll. Know what an HR nightmare it is when your employees get kidnapped and murdered?”

“We need to know what happened when he woke up.” Sam says, ignoring Tony. They can all tell he's concerned for her too. “See how he was behaving. Don’t we have CCTV of the med bay or something?”

“This isn’t Airstrip One,” Stark snaps. “JARVIS doesn't operate surveillance in the medical bay or private rooms. Some little thing about invasion of privacy... He monitors Barnes’ location when he’s in the tower, but only records full video surveillance when Red Scare is alone. So, in short, no.” 

“Could it have been the BARF?” Bruce suggests. “You were mucking around in his head only hours ago, asking a lot of questions, stirring things up. Could he have, I don’t know, got caught up in all the stuff he was seeing, forgot when and where he was? It’s not like he has the greatest grip on reality, even on a good day.”

“He didn’t remember Steve,” Nat reminds them. “Even when he was still fully under HYDRA’s thumb, back on the helicarrier, he knew Steve. This is new.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Tony argues. “He’s out of his head, and he’s a danger to everyone. Whether HYDRA did it, or we did it, or he did it to himself. If he’s reacting on instinct, we just need to figure out where that instinct is taking him before he kills someone that Hill can’t cover up.”

“If he’s lost his memory,” Sam reasons, “and thinks he’s HYDRA again, he’ll try and return to base. He told me once it’s part of his protocols. Before he found me and Steve he went back around all the old HYDRA safe houses and bases in the area before realising they were abandoned.”

Nat nods. “In the event of loss of all handlers, an agent or asset will report in to the nearest high-ranking agency personnel.” 

“Okay,” says Tony. “JARVIS, get a list of all the HYDRA bases we already knew of, plus the ones from Pierce’s data, and add any Hill’s people managed to figure out from the Winter Soldier’s memory log in the last few hours. I want to know any on our current trajectory-”

“Uh guys?” calls Clint from up front. “I got news.”

“Good or bad?”

“Depends. Tracker’s stopped moving. Looks like a private airfield in Minnesota, near Silver Bay Municipal.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Minnesota? _Again?_ ”

Nat shrugs. “It’s clearly a lair of evil.” 

“We’ll touch down in sixteen minutes,” Clint tells them. 

"Okay,” Steve says. “I have no idea what we’re gonna be walking into, but this is the basic strategy. Tony, you handle any aerial threats and get Emma and any other civilians to safety. They're your priority. Nat, Clint and Sam, identify and neutralise any other HYDRA agents that might have been alerted and jam any comms that you can. Everyone, stay alert and stay flexible. Bruce, keep out of sight and we’ll call you if we need you. But all of you, if you can, leave the Winter Soldier to me. I don’t know where his head is at, but I doubt he’ll respond well to anything resembling an attack. I’m hoping I can get him to listen to me. He’s still injured and I don’t want to make it worse or scare him."

“I’ll bear his sensitive feelings in mind while he’s trying to murder us all,” Tony snarks. He turns to Nat. “Don’t suppose you know any more of those shutdown codes you want to share with the class?” 

Nat shakes her head, fitting her own earpiece. “Nope. But I will share my toys.” She pulls a handful of tiny silver disks out of a pocket and hands them round. “Miniature EMPs. They’ll buy you a few seconds of downtime on the arm. Not long.”

“Why does Thor never have to deal with this shit?” Tony complains, but he takes the disruptor anyway.

There’s no time for further prep because Clint calls back to say they’re approaching the tiny airfield. 

But by the time they land, Bucky has already gone. The quinjet he stole is abandoned haphazardly on the snow-covered tarmac and a couple of airfield employees tell Steve how the helicopter used by the Lake Superior search and rescue crew has just been stolen. It reportedly hovered for some time, before the thieves flew off north. 

“What do we do?” Steve asks, the moment they’re back in the jet. It’s not the worst case scenario – the CCTV footage of the theft at least showed that Emma was still alive, so the Soldier hasn’t yet killed or dumped his hostage - but apart from that it’s pretty bad. The Soldier must have figured out that the quinjet was being tracked and pursuit was on his heels. They’re now looking for a civilian helicopter that they can’t trace heading to an unknown destination. The Soldier is slipping through their fingers.

“We’ve got two quinjets now,” Bruce points out. “We could split up, cover more ground.”

Tony is pacing. “Porn-star-moustache back there said Barnes shopped around before he stole that particular chopper one, right? He didn’t just jump in the first one he saw. So I think it is safe to assume he was choosing one specifically.”

“Right,” Sam agrees. “I saw at least three smaller, faster helis in the hanger he must have walked past before he settled on the Jayhawk.”

“Okay,” says Steve. “So why that one? What benefit does it give him?”

“Unless he wants to rescue like 15 guys from a sinking ship,” Tony says, “Not much.”

“Plus it’s bright orange,” Clint says, “Not exactly stealthy. It’s also unarmed.”

“Thing is,” Sam muses, “Jayhawk’s a medium range chopper, right? So he’s got distance, better than anything else at this field. If it was fully fuelled he’d get something like 700 miles with just two of them on board.”

 _“The Sikorsky MH-60 Jayhawk has a range of 802 miles,”_ JARVIS volunteers. 

“Right. We gotta assume that’s relevant,” says Steve. “Wherever he's going it's some distance away. JARVIS, do any known HYDRA bases lie on an arc around 800 miles north of here?”

There is silence for a few seconds. 

_“No, Captain. However, when considering a number of other probable factors such as past HYDRA activities, troop deployments, vehicle ranges and satellite imagery, I calculate that a previously unknown base was situated in Canada some distance north of your position. It may be of relevance that a small mining research facility, situated in Manitoba, was declared bankrupt one year ago but has continued to be accessed by an average of three vehicles per day. The facility lies 721.3 miles north of your present position. I am sending the coordinates to the quinjet computer.”_

“That seems like quite a gamble,” says Bruce, doubtfully. “We don’t even know if there is HYDRA activity there, or if there is, even if that’s where he’s headed.”

“We could still split up,” Clint points out. “One jet go check out this possible base, one circle the area here.”

Steve shakes his head. “No. If we chase this lead, we all go together. Who knows what could be waiting on an unknown HYDRA base. I’m not taking any chances by not having the team complete when we land.”

“It’s your call, Cap,” Tony says. “But if we go, we gotta go now, and there’ll be no time for second guessing.”

Steve nods. He looks indecisive for a second, and then his expression hardens. “What the hell,” he says. “Let’s go.”

They leave the other jet behind, promising the two airfield operatives someone will be by to collect it, and ten minutes later they’re crossing the border into Canadian airspace. Though the quinjet is fast, the delay investigating at the airfield means Winter Soldier has gained quite a lead; if he has taken the bird north as fast as possible from here, the Avengers will be maybe an hour behind. Plenty of time, Sam knows, for the Soldier to dispatch a useless hostage and barricade up inside a HYDRA fortress.

He glances at Steve. The man is taking the Winter Soldier's re-emergence and escape extremely well and Sam can see the core of steel which makes him the leader he is. He’s stressed and terrified for Bucky, but you would never know it if you weren’t his friend. He seems invincible. But Sam is his friend, and he can tell Steve’s turning up a new problem.

“What is it?” Sam prompts.

“Bucky said he didn’t know me,” Steve says. “In the hangar.”

“I know, man, but we’ll sort this out. We’ll get his head back on straight, I promise...”

Steve shakes his head. “No, that’s not what I mean. When he was shooting at us on the roof... There were three of us; Bruce, Nat and I, all perfect targets. We even had the sun in our eyes.”

“He fired three times but didn’t hit any of us,” Nat adds, overhearing their conversation. “Even though there was no reason he should have missed. And in the hangar, when he was shooting at Steve, his aim was far too low to do anything but glancing damage. You think he does still remember you?"

"I don't know," Steve says, looking away. "Maybe."

“Maybe he was just having a bad day and missed,” says Tony. “Who knows? Does it matter?”

“Tony, he's the _Winter Soldier_ ,” Nat says. “He doesn’t miss.”

Except he had. Four times. If he had really wanted to escape, the Soldier could have just killed them all. He should have.

“It doesn't make any sense," Bruce chimes in. "Even if for some reason he didn't want to kill anyone, maybe we're not his mission or something, but he could still have winged one of us as a distraction."

Nat shrugs."That's what I would have done."

"And he knows about the Other Guy too," Bruce adds. "Setting Hulk loose would definitely have slowed up a pursuit."

"The gun he had…" Sam says. "Couldn’t see from the video, but..."

"It was a Makarov," Nat comments. "Soviet made; not one of mine. He must have had it stashed for weeks, unless he got it off Ansell before he died."

“And come to think of it,” says Bruce. “What was Winter even doing on the roof?

Steve agrees. "Right. If he was heading for the hangar, why not just get out of the elevator on Floor 93 rather than go up to the roof and then back down the stairs?”

"Maybe he was expecting an extraction?" 

But no-one really has an answer. The idea that Barnes maybe hadn’t been trying to kill any of them is encouraging, but things are getting weirder by the moment.

The rest of the ride is undertaken in low conversation or silence. Sam can see Steve is turning over the situation in his mind, but if he has any revelations he doesn’t air them out loud.

Before too long, the quinjet starts to slow. They’re still following the heli’s trail; JARVIS has been updating them with civilian sightings of the stolen craft as it weaves across the Canadian skies. They think the bird might be damaged or Bucky is perhaps searching for something. Either way, Clint is more and more confident they made the right call. 

“We’re about five miles out from the mining facility,” Clint calls back. “Last sighting of the Jayhawk was one hour ago but I think this is it."

"Alright," Steve says. "Tony, you want to do a fly-by and check the place out? But both of you keep out of sight if you can. We don’t want anyone knowing we’re here before we’re ready for them to know.”

Though the sun has set, there’s still some light in the sky so staying stealthy is not going to be easy. Clint keeps the jet low and quiet as Tony takes off, and in about ten minutes Tony’s voice comes through the radio. 

_“Small fenced compound, maybe 50,000 square foot. Four small buildings surrounded by a shitload of trees. One road up to it. There's a few lights and some trucks but it looks small scale.”_

“Looks can be deceiving,” Nat comments.

“And in this instance, they almost certainly are.” Bruce agrees, holding up the tablet. “We’re still getting energy readings from the site, far too high for an empty mining compound. There’s something there, something drawing a lot of power.”

 _“If there’s more here, it’s gotta be underground,”_ Tony replies. _“I’ll do a fly round, see if I can see anything else.”_

“Keep out of sight,” Steve warns.

“I don’t like this,” Nat comments as soon as Tony has radioed out.

“Too quiet?” Bruce says.

Steve nods. “I agree. I didn’t want to do this but I think we’d better split up. Everyone avoid the road, that’ll certainly be watched. Clint, you'll need to drop Sam and I on the north side here, then take the jet down to the south, somewhere in this tree cover. We’ll all walk in the rest of the way, keeping to the trees. If this really is no more than an abandoned mine, we should rendezvous here outside the main building in fifteen minutes. If it isn’t – well, keep your eyes open. The land around is likely to be trapped or mined; we’ve certainly seen that before at HYDRA compounds.”

“You got it, Cap.”

Clint chooses an area to the north of the compound and brings the quinjet low. Steve jumps down from the open ramp when they are around forty-foot up and Sam follows behind, actually making appropriate use of the abseil rope. He drops into a thick blanket of snow that is almost knee-deep on the forest floor. The air is thin and cold, and Sam can see mountains in the distance, just far-off shadows in the dusk.

“Jesus,” mutters Sam, as his borrowed boots instantly fill up with freezing snow. “Couldn’t he have run off to a HYDRA base somewhere warm instead, like Honolulu? I hate snow.”

 _“He is_ _the 'Winter' Soldier,”_ Nat points out through the radio as the quinjet rises back up and speeds off to the south, keeping low above the treetops. “ _The Polynesian Soldier is a different assassin entirely.”_

 _“That guy sounds like a lot more fun though,”_ Clint points out. _"I bet his uniform is amazing. Maybe Barnes should defect again."_

 _"FYI,"_ adds Tony, _"While we're talking uniforms I have noticed that Cap's apparently patriotic spangles are missing a few stars. I mean, if we're going by flags here, he's technically Captain Puerto Rico…"_

The others are doing a good job of keeping things light, but Steve clearly isn't paying much attention to the banter as he sets off through the snow at a jog in the direction of the compound. Sam follows after. Steve is clearly sticking to the more difficult footing, seeking out bushes and undergrowth, avoiding the clear ground. Sam matches his footprints, eyes searching the gloom under the trees, but there’s no sign of tracks or cameras that he can see. Their breath streams cold in the night. 

_“We’ve landed,”_ Nat informs them, five minutes later. “ _Heading in towards the compound now. No sign of any enemy movement this far out but I can hear engines.”_

“Me too,” says Steve, stopping suddenly. “And heads up: I've just seen two infrared cameras in the trees.”

Steve unhooks his shield and slings it into the night and there’s soft crunching sounds from two different directions. Sam marvels once again at Steve’s enhanced senses - he hadn’t noticed a thing. They’ve only gone a few more feet when Steve stops dead, throwing up his right arm. Sam freezes.

“Landmine,” Steve murmurs, pointing. 

Sam peers into the gloom and this time he does see what Steve has spotted; the glint of metal showing through the snow. They warn the others and move slower after that, checking every step. Between them they spot four more mines and a tripwire. If this really is a geological outpost, the local ecological protesters must really be something.

The radio crackles again; this time it’s Tony.

_“Well fellas, I'd say we definitely came to the right place. Just spotted a search and rescue chopper parked up under a camo net on the east side of the compound. I’m just going in for a closer-“_

Tony’s words cut off in a sudden cacophony of sound; something to the south-east of Sam and Steve’s position explodes and a burst of light flares across the sky. They both skid to a halt, staring up at the sky as the light fades out. The radio crackles and goes silent.

 _“Iron Man!”_ Steve says into the radio, and then ten seconds later, _“Iron Man, respond.”_

 _“What’s going on?”_ says Bruce’s voice. _“Guys, what’s happened?”_

“Looks like Iron Man got shot down,” Steve says. “Enemy contact. Falcon, with me!” and then he is off like a bullet towards the compound. Sam sprints after him, hampered slightly by the new boots, the deep snow, and the knowledge that there's a high potential for getting his leg blown off any second. Barely a minute later, the first rooftops of the compound come into sight through the trees, and there’s a groan through the radio.

_“Ugh. Son of a bitch...”_

“Iron Man?”

 _“Shelled me outta the fucking sky,”_ Tony is muttering. “ _Jesus Christ, if he’s scratched my paintwork...”_

Tony’s fine. 

“Stay where you are,” Steve orders. “We’re coming up on the compound, there’s likely to be more traps.”

There is another load of tripwires and then a ring of what looks like honest-to-god bear pits and at last they arrive at the fence. Sam can see from a distance that there are cameras on top of each post, angled around the perimeter. Movement in the distance and they see the first sign of life; a two-man armed patrol with a dog is jogging away from them towards the road, in the direction Iron Man had been shot down. As soon as they are gone, Steve crouches and then throws the shield; it spins across the open ground, arcs around behind the fence, and smashes two more cameras from behind. Steve catches it as it spins back towards them. 

A sign on the fence reads “PRIVATE. Chasewood Mining Co. No Trespassing.” The fence is, of course, electrified too, but one of Nat’s little doohickeys makes short work of that. Steve and Sam are over the fence in seconds and then across the open yard and into the shadow of the buildings. There is distant shouting and the sound of engines but it doesn’t seem like they’ve been spotted. After the deadly assault course in the woods, Sam had expected the place to be crawling with guards, sirens and floodlights by now, but even the shouting is sporadic. It seems like there’s little more than skeleton security on site. The buildings for the most part remain dark and silent, although two have lights. Sam ducks low and runs over to one small building which has a low yellow light through its windows. He peers in cautiously though the half-open blinds; it’s a watch station of some type; lines of old screens are showing live CCTV and infrared camera feeds but the room is empty. There’s no-one watching the feeds. 

“This is weird,” Sam says, quietly after crossing back to Steve. “Someone must have shot at Iron Man but there’s not even anyone watching the cameras. It’s like the goddamn Marie Celeste.”

Steve nods. He points across the compound to a large metal structure, something like a small warehouse. Three trucks are idling outside and a number of figures running to and fro with a sense of urgency.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe the ground-to-air system is automated. But it looks like they’re abandoning this sinking ship as fast as possible.” Steve’s face is grim. “I’m assuming that means they’re going to blow this place to pieces – there’s usually a self-destruct. But that’s the only building with any activity; if Bruce is right about this compound hiding a larger site, I’m guessing that’s the entrance.”

“Think we could get a diversion?” Sam suggests, and just at that moment there is another, much closer, explosion from their left across the compound. The light flashes across dark windows and buildings stand out as squat silhouettes against a burst of orange flame. The sharp crack of gunfire follows, and ahead of them, the figures abandon the vehicles and sprint towards the fire.

 _“Contact,”_ Nat states, calmly. _“Also Hawkeye triggered a tripwire. He’s fine.”_

“Iron Man, backup Widow and Hawkeye,” Steve orders. “We’re going in.”

 _“On it. Be careful,"_ Nat acknowledges.

Tony chimes in too: _"Just remember that if you aren't out in fifteen minutes we’ll...I’ll be honest, we’ll probably just go home without you. I'd just sent for takeout when we left, so...”_

"Ready?" Steve says to Sam. Sam nods, readies the M4 and then they are sprinting across the open ground to the warehouse building. The door is wide open and unguarded, and they’re inside in a moment. Beyond the door there are dust-covered shelves of safety gear, a small office with a bank of ancient 90s CRT computer monitors, what looks like a break room, and four men in black tac gear. Two are carrying boxes and gear from a second room and behind, Sam can see a metal cage elevator suspended inside a yellow framework.

“Hey!” Steve yells, and all the men turn with a start. The two guarding the elevator are raising their guns; Sam and Steve shoot one each. Sam just hopes to God these guys aren’t innocent mine employees, but that's seeming increasingly unlikely at this juncture. One of the others drops the box of papers he’s carrying and slams a hand on his radio, while the second reaches for a weapon. 

“Don’t even think about it,” Sam warns, but the man reaching for his radio doesn’t stop. 

“Contact, building A-One-” the man has time to yell before Sam's shot clips in him in the shoulder and he goes down screaming. Sam dashes over and kicks him hard in the head until he goes quiet. But those screams combined with the gunshots and radio call means the damage is already done. That’ll teach him to go soft on people. He turns; Steve has the other guy pinned up against the wall by his throat.

“The Winter Soldier.” Steve snaps. “Where is he?”

The other guy gurgles a little but Steve doesn’t loosen his grip an inch. Sam has to remind himself once again that kind, artistic Steve Rogers has fought Nazis. Of course he isn’t going to be _nice_.

“I’m not going to ask again.” Steve says in a voice so dark it sends pinpricks up Sam’s arms.

“Lab 2D,” the guy gasps out and then grins through bloody teeth. “But it’s too late. You’ll never-”

Steve punches him, just once, in the head and the guy drops to the floor like a stone.

“Come on,” Steve says, and leaps into the cage elevator. Sam follows, slamming closed the metal grating that forms the door behind him. Steve jabs at a button labelled _2_ and the elevator judders into motion, descending down into the floor.

“Should have asked that guy about any other prisoners,” Sam says. “We have to find out where they took Emma, if she's still alive.”

Too late now. As the elevator descends, any pretense of this being a mining outpost vanishes like cheap set dressing. Instead of rough rock and shoring posts, they see instead a curving corridor of smooth concrete leading away, lined with blast doors. Sam clicks his radio, but of course there’s nothing, signal blocked by the rock above them. 

The first floor the elevator passes through extends away empty, but the moment the elevator drops to the second floor, bullets are suddenly strafing the concrete, and striking the metal grating of the open-sided elevator car.

“Shit!”

Steve has Sam shielded behind him in a second; Sam keeps his head low to avoid the gunfire and hears bullets pinging off the shield. The car stops with a shudder and Sam throws himself to the side, rolls, kicks the elevator gate open and comes up firing, Steve at his side. Six of the ten guys drop like unstrung puppets under their attack but then something slams into Sam with the force like a freight train and he’s off his feet and smacking into the wall before he can think.

He lies there dazed and winded. The crack of gunfire seems like it goes on for an age before suddenly there is silence and Steve’s face is peering over him. 

“Sam! You okay?”

Sam groans and sits up, breathing shallowly. “Yeah. Think so.”

He pats at his chest; the body armour seems intact, no blood and no punctures, though his chest is aching like a sonofabitch. He must have been hit centre mass by two shots at once; if this was standard issue armour that would've punched right through. Thank God for Tony Stark’s upgrades. Sam pushes himself forward using his cast arm, and that aches too.

“Glad they didn’t aim for the head,” he says, weakly. Steve helps him up but adrenaline is buzzing now and covering up the pain.

“Come on,” Sam says as soon as he's on his feet, snatching up his rifle. “Lab 2D, right?”

They run on down the corridor, Steve taking the lead. Two more guys try to ambush them as they turn a corner and four more burst out of a side room but all are dead within seconds and Steve doesn’t stop running. Sam takes the increase in enemies as a sign that they are going the right way.

Sam is keeping an eye on the doors they pass and he skids to a stop as he sees the nameplate. “Lab 2D. This one.”

Steve doesn’t hesitate, wrenching the door open and diving inside. They glance around but the laboratory inside is empty. 

“There,” Sam points. “Another door.”

This one is labelled _Testing Room._

Steve takes up position beside the door and Sam crouches on the other side.

Steve glances at him once to check he’s ready. Sam nods and Steve kicks the door in. 

* * *

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all your comments, they were brilliant and hilarious!


	16. Sam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta read by [theAsh0](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theAsh0/pseuds/theAsh0).

Sam and Steve burst in through the door, guns raised. Bucky isn't there. Instead there is a short section of cylindrical steel corridor, like an airlock, and then beyond only a dark void.

Sam glances at Steve. Steve nods. Silently, they run down the walkway, side by side, and then step cautiously out into the darkness.

They've entered a massive space; it could be a natural cavern or some immense mine shaft, Sam has no idea. The vast majority of it is in darkness, but Sam can feel the air currents and hear the echoes swirling about them betraying its size. An array of floodlights have illuminated a circle perhaps a hundred foot around them; there are lab benches and monitors and equipment on all sides disappearing into the dark. No sign of enemy agents yet.

On Steve’s signal, Sam moves left, gun raised and ready, eyes darting. He steps out from behind some shelving and spots a figure. It's Emma Pedley. She’s sitting on a stool up near the wall, looking impossibly small and frail in the vastness of the dark, but she’s alive. She turns to look at them, eyes wide.

And then Sam sees the Winter Soldier. He’s immediately behind Emma’s shoulder, standing in the shadows just on the edge of the darkness, stiller than stone, arms loose by his sides. The clothes he’s wearing are those Barnes chose that morning for the debrief, soft grey sweatpants and blue T-shirt. He’s barefoot as usual, but his red hoodie has vanished, the one that Barnes has been systematically shredding the cuffs of for days. But for all that the clothing is familiar, it’s pretty clear Barnes ain’t home right now. The posture and stillness and the dead, dead expression behind the shadow of his hair are all the Winter Soldier’s. 

There’s a gun in his flesh hand.

Sam hesitates. The Soldier is close, he must have heard them both enter but he hasn't made any move to attack. Doesn’t even twitch his head as Sam shifts for a better angle around the shelving. There's a flicker of movement on the other side of the lab and Steve is there, silently moving in, and the Soldier doesn't look towards him either. It’s like he can’t see or hear them. Has he dissociated or something? Sam steps forward cautiously towards Emma. The lab looks to be empty but even if the Soldier is out of it, there's always a chance a fight bring half a dozen more guys down on their heads. There's no choice. He has to get her away from the Soldier, out of this place. It's hard to see from here but she doesn't look hurt. Will the Soldier stop her leaving now he's got what he wanted?

When he sees Steve is in position, Sam calls out, quietly, “Emma. It's Sam. Everything's going to be alright. We'll get you out of here.”

“Sam,” says Steve. A warning to be careful, but the Winter Soldier still hasn't reacted to their voices.

“It’s alright,” Sam repeats, just as softly. He holds out a hand and beckons. “Just walk over to me. Come on. It’s going to be okay.”

 _"Sam,”_ says Steve again, and there’s suddenly a hard tone in his voice, like when he’d slammed the guy into the wall earlier. Sam looks over in surprise, and Steve’s expression is all closed-off hurt and betrayal but he’s not looking at Sam. 

He’s not looking at Bucky either.

Suddenly there’s a click in Sam’s brain like a key being twisted into place. 

“Well, _fuck_ ,” he murmurs, and straightens up. Emma is staring at him, calmly. “Bucky never took you hostage at all, did he? _You_ took _him_.”

Emma Pedley sighs. 

“If it means anything,” she says. “I really didn’t want things to end this way.”

“You’re HYDRA?” Sam asks, feeling strangely faint. 

“Nearly forty years,” she acknowledges, calmly. “Though I really was SHIELD too. I believed in their methods, just as much as I disapproved of HYDRAs. Nick Fury was a great man and a remarkable idealist. Luckily I was already retired when the uprising happened. I didn’t have to help betray him.”

“Why?” says Steve and Sam knows he’s not asking Pedley about her retirement. He looks as dangerous as Sam has ever seen him. “You said you were going to help Bucky. God, I left you _alone_ with him! What the hell did you do to him?”

Sam glances at Winter again. His face is still Asset blank, no sign he’s even aware of where he is or who is nearby. No indication he knows he’s been manipulated, controlled yet again. Sam sees the light glint off the prosthetic arm and then Sam spots something else; there’s a dull metallic band, like a thick handcuff, clamped around Winter’s metal elbow, and some sort of thin blue rope seems to be extending from it into the darkness. Anger swells. The horrible crushing control of the brainwashing isn’t enough, so they’ve literally chained him to the fucking wall.

“Were you one of his original handlers?” Steve demands.

Pedley shakes her head with a laugh. “How unkind, Captain; I’m not _that_ old. I only saw him once before all this. In East Berlin, back when Alexander was still Undersecretary. The Soldier had just come in from a mission in Tehran and I guess they wanted to show him off a little. What they had made...it was _incredible._ ”

“They tortured him for seven decades!” Sam can’t help but interrupt. “What about that is incredible? You’re supposed to be a doctor...a psychiatrist, for fuck’s sake!”

"Precisely,” she says. “I am a psychiatrist. And what HYDRA did to his psyche...to completely rebuild a person from the ground up, remove memory and emotion and free will and morals but without damaging his intellect or aggression or obedience…"

Sam very much wants to hear this explanation. He had _liked_ Dr Pedley, admired her skill and resolve and he really, really wants to believe there’s a good reason for her stabbing them in the back. But he has also seen enough movies to suspect when someone is stalling and he really doesn’t want to die in a shitty copper mine in Manitoba. After a quick glance around the cavern and the tunnel behind to check there's no other hostiles inbound, Sam slips his phone out of his pocket with the hand not holding his gun. They have to get backup down here as soon as possible.

Doctor Pedley is still talking, either unaware of Sam's movement or uncaring. "However distasteful HYDRA's methods are, the end results cannot be denied. The moment I heard the Soldier had been caught I knew I had to be in New York. I had to see if he was still everything he had been in Berlin.” 

Sam's phone buzzes silently in his hand. He flicks his eyes to the screen - thank fuck Stark's cellphone upgrades meant they somehow get phone signal down here at least - to see Nat’s response.

_SAM: found WS but hit trouble. Backup?_

_NAT: Base secure but destruct set T- 14 mins. BB+Stark working to disarm. Get out asap._

_SAM: Working on it._

Self-destruct. Shit. 

Sam quickly punches up the timer on his phone, but it’s no use relying on that 14 minutes. It took him and Steve over four minutes just to get down the lift shaft and across the base and even when they're on the surface they’ll still have to get beyond the blast radius after that. That’s not a lot of time. 

The countdown has begun.

“We've got ten minutes to get out before this place blows,” Sam murmurs, quietly, knowing Steve will hear him. Steve doesn’t take his eyes off the doc but he nods, almost imperceptibly. Message received.

“Didn’t you think you might be recognised?” Steve says, trying to keep Pedley’s attention. She laughs, bright and unconcerned. 

“The thought had occurred, yes. At first I was just going to observe the Soldier from a distance, to be on the safe side, but I couldn’t help but get closer. As soon as I saw Yasha though I just had to get in there and examine him, face to face. Fortunately, the years haven’t been as kind to me as to him. He didn’t know me at all.'

"Then you wanted me to be Yasha's doctor, Steve, and I was going to have all the time in the world to study him. Years. I wanted to see if I could take what HYDRA left, build Yasha back up to being James Barnes again, to make him whole and functioning, and then, when he thought he was cured, to break him all the way back down. See how far he could be pushed. Study every protocol, every command buried in his head. You know he recognised you, Steve? Despite all the years, all the wipes. Even when he repeated that he didn't back in he hanger, I know it wasn't true. Isn’t that astonishing? There has never been anything like the Winter Soldier. He is something brand new,” Emma says, simply. “Something unique. And then that disastrous debriefing happened.”

“That entire debrief was your idea,” Steve points out. Sam can see he is slowly but surely moving across the room towards Bucky, step by step. The doc doesn’t seem to have noticed.

“It was my attempt at tactical planning,” Emma shrugs. “Not my strong suit, I suppose. But I knew that Yasha would be incapable of answering any questions in his present state. The CIA would get nothing out of the debriefing but mumbled Russian and hand signs they can’t read, and I could use that result to argue for an increase in medications, more one-on-one therapy, perhaps even institutionalisation, so I could continue my research in peace. I hadn’t counted on Mr Stark’s memory reading device, but at least I was not compromised. But really, it was all about striking back at SHIELD. I was being pushed to act by my superiors; I have a chain of command too, you know. I had managed what no-one else had, to infiltrate the best defended enemy base in the country, Avengers Tower, and they wanted results. The higher ups couldn’t resist the idea of using the Winter Soldier to lure key elements SHIELD, the CIA, the army and the Avengers into one place and gassing the lot of you.”

“You were willing to kill yourself? And the Winter Soldier too? For an organisation already in tatters?”

“Loyalty demands sacrifice, Steve; you of all people know that,” Emma says with a wistful smile. “But in this case, there was no need for me to die. I had a gasmask in my bag, and I’ve seen the lab results; Yasha has survived worse. He’d recover completely in a few days. I was confident that once I gave the triggers we could easily escape while Stark’s people dealt with the chaos. I hadn’t counted on Yasha recognising Amsel, though, or reacting so quickly. Or on the resourcefulness of Ms Romanov.”

“Why?” Steve says again, as if knowing the reason will somehow make this all make sense. “Why now? No-one suspected you, not even Nat. You could have stayed hidden. Why did you run?”

Emma sighs, and looks over at the Soldier, a little wistfully. “You were going to take his arm,” she says. “I heard you talking. I couldn’t let you do that. It’s part of him, perhaps the only part of him that matters. I could play at therapy all I wanted, tinker around inside his brain, remind him of his family and his friends, make him remember. But I could also tear it all away again with a word and know that the Soldier will always spring back like a rubber band. With that arm as his anchor, Yasha will always return to HYDRA. We’re literally beneath his skin.”

“You’re wrong,” says Steve. “He doesn’t belong to you. You’re _wrong_.”

“Either way, it’s over,” Sam says, firm, resolute. Inside, though, he’s shaken to the core. This world of Steve's - with its spies and its secrets, where such insidious, callous evil can hide behind Emma Pedley's innocent facade of elderly kindliness - it’s beyond fucked up. “Winter is leaving with us, and this place is gonna blow in about...11 minutes. If we're not out in 7, we all die. Either you come with us, right now, or tell us how to disarm the distruct. You must know the code."

“Oh yes. I know the code,” Emma agrees, and then she says, “Добросердечный, Возвращение на родину. Солдат, защити меня.”

The Soldier jerks like a dog when its leash is yanked. He lurches into motion, striding in front of Pedley. The cable attached to his left arm jerks and shimmers as he moves. Emma Pedley ducks in behind the Soldier, using his body for cover, as the Soldier raises the gun. His eyes and the barrel are both fixed on Steve.

“Woah,” says Sam, startled, his own gun trained on the threat. “What was that; what did you do?”

“It is one of several words in a trigger sequence,” Pedley responds from behind her Bucky Barnes meat-shield. “Ms Romanov’s shut-down code might have been just one word, but the Soldier’s boot-up sequence is very much more complicated. With all ten trigger words they say the Soldier would remain under your command indefinitely. But those words were HYDRA’s greatest secret. Only written down in one place, never copied, never digitised. It took me years to learn just two. But two is enough. I can control him, and now we’re leaving, together. If you try and stop us, he’ll shoot.”

“But he _isn’t_ under your control, is he?” Steve says, stepping closer. “Not with two words out of ten. He’ll follow your orders for now but he’s not your puppet. He’s fighting you, every step of the way.”

Sam recalls the shoot-out on the roof of Stark Tower and realises that Steve's words aren't just some wishful thinking. He's right about Barnes. All those bullets which went inexplicably wide, the circuitous route through Stark Tower to the hangar, the theft of such a distinctive helicopter, and then that slow, winding flight to the mining compound. Winter _had_ been fighting Pedley, as much as he could. He had been leaving a trail for Steve to find.

Sam glances at his phone again. Less than nine minutes till they’re out of time to escape. _Shit._ They’re haemorrhaging time. This conversation is done.

“This place is gonna get blown to hell, Emma,” Sam says “If you won't shut off the distruct you'll have just...eight minutes and forty seconds to immobilise me and Steve. and then to get out of here. And even if you can do that, do you honestly think you’ll just walk off with Barnes and go on your merry way? All your allies are dead or captured by now and it’s not like we came here alone. The goddamn _Avengers_ are waiting up there. There’s nowhere else to go.”

“You don’t control him,” Steve says again. "No-one will control him again." He takes another step, and he’s a mere twenty feet away from Barnes now. Winter’s hooded eyes are watching him like a raptor but he still doesn't attack. “Bucky didn’t shoot me back at Stark Tower and I don't believe he'll shoot me now. Give up.”

“Perhaps he won’t. Probably _he_ doesn’t even know who he will and won’t shoot anymore,” Emma says, and Sam sees the moment reality dawns by the way her jaw tightens. She isn’t getting out of here and she finally realises it. This is the end of the road. “If I ordered him outright to kill you both right now...would he do it, do you think? Well, it’s your life, and I know you would take the risk. But I know there’s one life here that you won’t gamble with. Asset, prepare for Decommission Protocol.”

Before either of them can speak, Winter moves. He drops to his knees, lowers his head, and shoves the gun barrel up against his skull. His face is blank. Steve takes an abortive step towards them but freezes, arms reaching out.

“One more word from me,” Emma says, “and I know he’ll put a bullet in his own brain. He might fight to his last breath to save your life, Steven, but he has a self-sacrificing streak a mile wide. This, he won’t fight. Trust me, I’m his therapist.”

She straightens, keeping the Soldier between her and Steve.

“Well,” she says, “By Sam’s estimate I’m guessing we have around six and a half minutes left to live. Any last words?”

“You don’t have to do this,” Steve says. “You said you didn’t want to hurt anyone, right? Prove it. Let Bucky go. Tell us how to stop the self-destruct and let us take you in. You’ll be alive at least. I’ll see to it that you get a fair trial.” 

She laughs a little. “Captain, no offence, but that’s a pretty lousy offer. I’m 67 years old, I can’t imagine I would thrive in a prison environment. No. I rather think there’s something rather fitting about this end. I was never important to HYDRA; even after years of dedication I was never hailed as a hero to the cause. I never got the chance to really prove myself. So it will be quite the honor, I think, to have brought about the death of both Captain America and the Winter Soldier, and to be buried here beside them for eternity.”

“What am I, then?” snaps Sam. “A piece of furniture?”

Emma laughs. “Sam Wilson,” she says, fondly. “You are sweet. I shall miss you.”

She nods once, respectfully, to Steve. “Captain,” she says. Then she looks towards Bucky. “Asset, enact Decommiss-“

Sam shoots her in the head.

Steve is moving the millisecond the shot sounds. He propels himself forward like a cannonball, dives straight across a lab bench and is at Bucky’s side before Emma Pedley’s body has hit the floor. But no matter how fast he is, he can’t beat a bullet. 

Fortunately he doesn’t have to. Whether it was that Pedley was cut off before issuing the last syllable of the order, her mangled pronunciation of the Russian codes, or whether it’s the last tattered remnants of Bucky’s free will in action, the Soldier hasn’t fired. But _shit_ , is it hard for him to disobey. His eyes are wide and shocked, eyelids fluttering. His hand is trembling and there’s a sheen of sweat on his face. Steve grabs Bucky’s right wrist, trying to pull his arm and the gun away because he might not have fired yet, but the gun is still pressed under Winter’s chin, the safety is off and Sam can see Winter’s finger is still touching the trigger. One wrong breath and it'll all be over. Sure, supersoldiers can survive a lot. Sam knew it from Steve even before he saw the footage of Winter’s memories and was forced to watch burns and lash marks on shredded skin fade out of sight, watch toes and fingers and teeth regrow. But not even a supersoldier can regrow a brain.

Sam dashes straight towards Pedley, while behind him Steve is speaking to Barnes in a quiet murmur, comforting and soothing, while he attempts to pull the gun free of Bucky’s grasp. Bucky is staring up at him with wide, terrified eyes, frozen.

Sam drops beside the doctor’s body while his other hand is jabbing at his phone. Nat answers immediately.

“We’ve got him,” Sam says, shortly. "The self-destruct?"

 _“No. You’ve got six minutes,_ ” Nat responds, equally as terse. “ _Evac at the main gate. Move it!”_

Sam hangs up without another word and shoves his fingers against the doctor’s throat. There really isn’t much need to take a pulse what with his bullet neatly ventilating Emma Pedley’s frontal lobe, but Sam does it anyway, feeling angry and sick for her betrayal, then angry about feeling angry, and then angry and sick all over again the fact they came to save her and Sam had no choice but to shoot and now there’s no movement beneath the wet blood and cooling skin of her neck. She’s dead.

On the floor beside the doctor, as if it had dropped from her hand as she fell, is a small electronic device, like a garage door opener. It has smashed into a dozen pieces.

“...Just trust me,” Steve is saying, behind him. “You can let it go. Let go, Bucky.” Sam turns in time to see Winter react as something about Steve's words finally gets through. The Soldier's hand twitches, and the gun jerks away from his head. Then the fingers open and the pistol drops to the ground. Steve kicks it away with a clatter.

“Sam, get that chain off!” 

“On it.” 

Sam sprints over, and grabs hold of Winter’s left metal arm. It’s the first time he’s ever touched the thing and as careful as he usually is about bodily autonomy there’s no time now for anything but survival. The cuff is fitted so tight around the elbow that it’s like it's been welded on; a band of seamless dark metal with a blue sheen clamped around the arm's dull silver. The ‘chain’ is actually a length of some vivid blue metal cable that Sam doesn’t have to get up close with to feel it rippling with power. It’s electrified, or worse; there’s no way Sam can touch that with his bare hands. Sam wrenches uselessly at the cuff for a few moments but there’s no give, no obvious mechanism keeping it closed and he can’t get it to slide down to the wrist or over the hand.

“Steve, I can’t get it off!” Sam yells. He lets go, glancing at his phone. Five minutes and 23 seconds to detonation. That's just a minute and a half to get out of here.

Steve appears and starts pulling at the cuff with his giant hands so Sam dashes back to the doc’s body. He rummages through her pockets, turns over her bag onto the floor. There must be something, a key, that can lock and unlock the restraint. She had come in here to retrieve the Soldier for the evacuation...she had been planning to leave, she must have had a way to get him out. Rolling across the floor are syringes, tablets, notebooks, a gasmask, exam gloves....nothing to unlock the cuff. He glances at the smashed electrical components from the little device scattered across the floor and has a slow, numb feeling.

Bucky is still kneeling and silent behind him. Steve has abandoned the cuff and followed the cable to the other end, hoping to find a weakness where it attaches to the wall, but there’s no hope there either – the cable emerges from a small opening in the wall like a porthole. The attachment point is likely buried deep within the stone; they’ll never reach it in time. 

Sam calls Nat. 

She doesn’t answer, but Clint picks up on the first ring.

_“...Son of a...yes, hi.”_

“Tell me you got the self-destruct disarmed,” Sam says.

 _“Excuse us, we’ve been kind of busy!”_ Hawkeye sounds out of breath. “ _Nat’s hurt, things are going distinctly green out here... Most of the HYDRA guys have taken off but they've left a great lightshow of automated attack systems. We can’t get Iron Man in close enough to...motherfucker!”_ Something explodes in the background. “ _You’ll have to get yourselves out. You’ve got, like, five minutes before this place is toast.”_

While they’re talking, Sam sees Steve actually grab the cable with his bare hands. Shocks of visible electrical current race up and down his arms as Steve tears at the cable, shoulders straining, teeth clenched. It still doesn’t give. 

“Listen to me,” Sam says into the phone. “We got to Winter but he’s trapped. We can’t get him free. You gotta buy us more time. Cut the power or something; the restraint is electrical, that might work.”

_“What about the doc; you find her?”_

Sam grimaces. “She’s not coming.”

 _“Shit.”_ Clint says. _“We’ll do what we can.”_

Sam hangs up.

They pool their efforts then; Sam and Steve both shoving fingers in below the cuff around Winter's arm, pulling from opposite directions until Sam’s hands start bleeding. Winter comes alive at last and starts scrabbling at the restraint too with his flesh hand, tearing at the connections, pulling on the cable until the tendons stand out in his neck, but nothing breaks it. Sam even tries the Widow’s disruptors on the cable and cuff and when that doesn’t work, resorts to shooting at it. But the bullet ricochets off around the cavern, leaving the cuff undented. 

Fuck. They’re not going to make it.

There’s a suddenly distant _boom_ and the ground beneath them tremors, and then all at once they’re plunged into darkness as the flood lights cut out. The far-off hum of extraction fans falls silent and the vibration of distant machinery stills. The others have managed to kill the power. This is their last hope. 

Sam turns back towards Winter. He's lit up by the blue light of the cable, still glimmering with its steady gleam in the darkness. The cuff is still sealed tight, unchanged. Whatever’s powering it isn’t sourced from the main generator. Their last gamble hasn’t worked. 

Emergency lights flicker on a second later and, in the low glow, Sam can see Steve staring at Winter. Then Sam’s phone lets out a shrill buzz as the timer goes off. Four minutes left before detonation. The time it would take them to ascend up out of the mine and maybe, maybe, put enough distance behind them to get clear of the blast zone. 

They’re out of time. It’s too late.

Winter slumps down onto his knees like he’s collapsing in on himself and suddenly he starts talking, the first words he’s said in hours. “Go,” he says, at first a whisper Sam can barely hear, rising in volume until he’s shouting. “Go, go, go, Stevie, you gotta go, go now...”

“I am _not_ leaving you,” Steve says, crouching down in front of him, desperate, furious, terrified.

“Go! GO! Please...” Winter is fully present now, shaking, crying beneath his mess of hair, shoving uselessly against Steve’s chest. He’s begging.

Steve looks at Sam and his throat closes up but he knows. Steve won't leave Bucky behind again. 

Sam calls Clint back.

_“Sam, this had better be you calling for extraction, ‘cause that countdown is still ticking.”_

“Cutting the power didn't work, guys. We’re not gonna make it,” Sam says, trying not to think what that means, trying not to think about the promise he made to Tessa.

There’s muffled shouting and swearing in the distance. He must be on speaker. 

“They left Winter chained up down here like a dog,” Sam says. “We can’t get him free.”

 _“Where are you at?”_ Hawkeye says.

“Giant cavern, two levels down at the east end of the complex,” Sam tells him. “We might even be deep enough that we’ll make it when the place goes up. You guys get to a safe distance and come dig us out after.”

That’s bullshit and they all know it. When the complex above blows, the whole thing is going to come crashing down into this void where they’re standing as the mine collapses in on itself. Their chances of survival are slightly less than nil.

Sam hears more distant noise down the line.

 _“We’ve got the cavern on the scanners.”_ Nat’s voice is suddenly on the line. She’s not hurt too badly at least. _“I advise you to get under something and hold on.”_

“What are you doing?”

 _“We’re getting you all out,”_ Nat says. _“Incoming.”_

Sam drops the phone. He grabs for Steve and Winter and starts dragging them towards the wall. “Get back, quick!”

Steve gets with the programme faster than Winter and helps Sam haul Barnes back against the rock wall beside the point where the cable vanishes into the rock. 

“What are they doing?” Steve barks.

“I have no idea, but I’m not standing around waiting to find out! Get under the bench!”

The three of them pile under one of the solid lab benches. Steve pushes their heads down, throwing the shield over them just as there is a tremendous rumble from the stone around them. The floor shakes, the walls of the cavern tremble and lumps of rock start to fall from the walls and stone roof of the cavern high above. This doesn’t seem like something Nat could be doing. Did Sam get the timer wrong? Is the self-destruct going off too early?

There’s a massive _crack_ , huge chunks of ceiling the size of cars smash down to the floor, equipment around them sparks and crumples. There’s a deafening screech of metal on rock, an explosion, and the air is thick with smoke and dust. 

Everything goes still if not quiet. Something is roaring, like engines. 

Sam opens his eyes and sees shafts of light, thick with smoke and stone dust, cutting through the roof. Steve is crawling out from their shelter, dragging Sam and Winter free. Sam is coughing hard, pain in his chest intense where his vest took the shot, eyes streaming. The dust and smoke clears and he sees the massive hole blasted in the roof and the lights streaming down are from the quinjet hovering in the night sky hundreds of feet far up above.

Then he hears a roar of bestial rage, one that sends a cold spiral of primal fear down his spine. The news footage of the invasion of New York had in no way prepared him for this. Rising from a crouch on the cavern floor in front of them is the Hulk. He roars again and then Iron Man too drops out of the massive hole in the cavern roof and touches down on the shattered concrete next to Sam.

The moment rocks had finished falling from the sky, Steve was back at Bucky’s side trying to break the cuff again. But this time Bucky isn’t sitting passively or even helping; he’s actually fighting back, trying to pull away even as he’s trying to shove Steve off him. Sam is still staring at the Hulk.

Tony sees them and strides over. 

“What am I, a taxi service for stranded pensioners?” Tony’s mechanised voice drawls as he crosses over to them. “We’ve got two minutes before this place dramatically ceases to exist and also I may technically have just bombed Canada so let’s fucking go already.”

“Barnes is tied to the wall,” Sam explains shortly, dragging his eyes off the Hulk. “We can’t break the cable.”

Winter looks up, and spots Sam, Tony and the Hulk. He yells something in Russian and it doesn’t matter that Sam doesn’t understand a word because the look of terror and heartbreak on Winter’s face is enough. He’s not scared of Hulk. He’s begging them to get Steve to safety, to leave him behind, anything, if it would mean saving Steve.

Steve ignores the pleas. "Hulk!" he yells. The creature looks round, face scowling. He’s pissed. Steve points at the rock wall into which the cable disappears. "Smash!"

Hulk roars again in some kind of wild delight and hurls himself at the cavern wall. Under those enormous green fingers, great chunks of rock tear apart like packing foam. 

At the other end of the cable, Iron Man elbows Steve aside. “I’m going to try and blast this. Get back, Cap.” 

Iron Man wraps his gauntlet around the cable, and a beam of intense golden light bursts from the palm, sparking and snapping against the cable. The cable burns a scorching aquamarine blue, crackling with energy. Sparks shoot up and down the wire, travelling straight into the cuff and directly into Winter. Barnes convulses, dropping back to the floor and wrenching his arm across his chest, pulling the cable tight.

 _"We’re down to 60 seconds!"_ Nat's voice yells from the comms. 

"I have to keep going!" Iron Man shouts, still gripping the sparking cable, no pause in his onslaught. Steve is on his toes, ready to grab Barnes and run the moment the cable breaks but it’s somehow still holding. 

Iron Man raises his right hand too, adding a second blast of yellow light into the cable. The blue light pulses, metal sparking and spitting, repulsors in both palms whirring. Barnes starts screaming as the force of the repulsors is channelled straight through the cuff into the arm and then into his flesh. Sparks burst from the cuff. Winter is still screaming and the cuff doesn't open. 

"Stop!” yells Sam, and the same moment Steve says;

"Tony, stop. That's enough."

Tony lowers his hands and Bucky goes quiet. 

_"Thirty seconds."_ Nat says. " _Guys_..."

The Hulk has torn a hole in the rock wall the size of a tank but that blue cable is still going on into the rock face. Whatever the restraint was designed to hold, HYDRA had buried it deep. After all their efforts, after everything, not one thing any of them can do has scratched the cable at all. The cuff is still undented. 

"Tony," says Steve, crouching at Winter's side. "Get them out. Far from here as you can."

"Steve," says Sam, but there's nothing else to say. Bucky is trapped here to die and Steve will never leave Bucky. It would be easier to take the moon out of the sky.

Tony strides over. 

"The hell with that," he says, and then; “JARVIS, divert all power to the chest piece. Steve, get out of the goddamn way.”

Iron Man steps forward, braces his feet, hands at his sides. "Barnes," He says. "Just...don’t move."

There's a humming, whirring sound like a rocket powering up and then a beam of pure energy shoots from the glowing circle on Iron Man's chest and blasts, not into the cuff, but straight into the Winter Soldier's metal arm. There is a high sonorous tone like a bell tolling, a mounting pressure that pushes in behind Sam's eyeballs, and then, with a screech of metal and sparks, the arm fucking _explodes_. 

Burning shrapnel fires out in all directions. Winter staggers sideways, about to fall. Sam spins to see the remains of the forearm and hand, severed off jaggedly and still gripped in the metal cuff, clatter to the floor. The cable snaps back, coiling up like a snake or a tentacle, dragging the remains of the arm back with it into darkness. 

Winter overbalances and falls to a knee; the sparking remains of his shoulder swings down as he tries to slow his descent with an arm that isn't there. But Barnes is free. He's white faced, barely conscious and reeling with shock and pain, but he's free.

 _"Twenty seconds!"_ Nat yells. _"Nineteen, eighteen_..."

Hulk roars a question. 

“Then get out of here, numbnuts!” Iron Man yells back. “I’ve got the others. Guys, hold on! ”

Steve has already grabbed Bucky, dragging him up and throwing the man's surviving arm around his shoulders. 

To the side, Hulk leaps for the hole in the roof in one effortless bound. He catches the rock with one giant hand and scrambles up the blasted rock chute towards the black circle of the night sky and the lights of the quinjet above.

Sam doesn't waste another second; he leaps over, seizing Steve's shoulder harness and looping the other arm round Barnes’ waist. Steve is still holding Winter up, and with his other hand he snatches onto the handle on the back of Sam’s tac vest. 

Iron Man closes steel fingers on Steve’s shoulder and kicks off from the ground. Sam feels a jolt as the thrusters fire up, his tac vest pulls in tight as his feet leave the floor, and then they're hurtling up towards the cave roof. Below them, dwindling smaller, lie Emma Pedley’s corpse and the shattered pieces of the Soldier’s arm.

".... _Eleven, ten..."_

"Go, go, go!" Iron Man shouts to Nat as they hurtle upwards towards escape. “Get above the blast radius. Hulk, go wide!”

Suddenly, they burst out of the jagged, blasted chute of rock, into the night. The moment they’re in sight, the quinjet hovering above them lifts and then speeds off to the north. Hulk lands on the edge of the shattered cavern, leaps 200ft across the electrified fence in one enormous bound and then leaps again, crashing into distant trees. Keeps going.

".... _Seven...six..."_

Iron Man doesn’t slow; he’s still flying up vertically like a rocket. The wind is rushing in Sam’s ears, ice cold on his face. The grip of his fingers on Steve’s uniform is weakening but Steve’s hold on Sam’s body armour is unflinching, like iron. Winter, gripped between them, is shaking hard, possibly convulsing, no doubt in shock and agony, but he’s free, he’s free, and they’re out of the mine, they just have to outfly a bomb, they can do this, they can...

".... _One..."_

With a noise like the dawn of the universe, the compound below them detonates in a chrysanthemum of flame. Iron Man is still climbing as the entire mountainside around begins to shake and bulge, and is finally engulfed, millions of tons of rock and tree collapsing in on itself, ripping up buildings and corridors and labs until they are consumed within the fiery inferno. Tongues of flame lash up hungrily after them, following the path of least resistance in their wake, but at last they fall short and die away, leaving only a flicker of distant heat far below.

The base is gone. The HYDRA infiltrator in their midst is gone. The Avengers are safe, Bucky is safe, and as soon as they get back in the quinjet and Sam can stop being so disconcerted about flying without his wings, Sam will be safe too.

It's not the worst day ever.

The end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who has taken the time to leave kudos or comments, or just read and enjoy. I made this for you and I hope it was a fun ride; I had a blast writing it. 
> 
> House points to GMT who guessed the twist in the comments to Chapter 15. I worked a lot on the original characters, and while I had always planned for there to be a Hydra mole close to the team, even I did not know it was going to be Emma until quite late on. I was genuinely furious at her myself when I realised she was the traitor all along. Still, I left a few little clues here and there for you in her dialogue and her interactions with Bucky.  
> Two little easter eggs - Pedley comes from the Old French pie de leu or ‘wolf’s foot’. So her name literally means 'wholly stealthy.'  
> \- the Soldier's trigger words in sequence are hidden in the chapters leading up to Emma's first session with Bucky in Chapter 10, counting down to the moment she takes control of the Soldier. 
> 
> This is clearly not the end of Bucky's journey, and I have a third book under way to follow on from this. Titled 'Hereafter', that will cover the fall out from Emma's betrayal and Tony destroying Bucky's arm, Sam's first missions with the Avengers, Steve dealing with everything that's happened so far, and generally a lot of healing all around in the form of baking, punching shit and excessive playing of Skyrim. Unfortunately, though I have 12 chapters written that I'm really happy with, I probably won't be completing it soon - complete block on how to get to the end - but as a teaser I have posted a little segment from a later chapter as an epilogue to this. 
> 
> Huge thanks as always to [theAsh0](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theAsh0/pseuds/theAsh0), [Thepracticalheartmom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thepracticalheartmom/pseuds/Thepracticalheartmom), and [Lightsider](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightsider/pseuds/Lightsider) who all worked on betaing parts of this monster for me. Their help and advice was truly invaluable. 
> 
> I love getting feedback so please leave a comment if you've enjoyed this, and thanks again for reading! E x


	17. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an extract from Book 3: 'Hereafter.' It might be a while before that one is completed so I wanted to leave you with a little taste of it here of one of my favourite moments so far, just to give you a little glimpse of how far Bucky can go.
> 
> As usual, I'm always on the look out for beta readers so if anyone is interested in working with me on Book 3 please just let me know! 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy.

Steve had returned to the apartment earlier than expected the first time he sees it. He had stepped into the doorway to the lounge and paused. Both Sam and Bucky have their backs to him, and he knows neither of them have heard him approach yet because otherwise one or both of them would have moved. Sam is just standing there, his weight even on his feet and arms at his sides, a posture so casual that it has to be deliberate. Beside him is Bucky, and he’s reaching out towards Sam with his arm almost fully extended. He’s looking away, but the tips of his fingers are definitely brushing against the skin of Sam’s forearm.

It isn’t the first time that Bucky has initiated physical contact with another person. There’s been poking and snatching, of course, and the occasional physical fight when he’s touched with the intent to harm. Less aggressive touches have been limited to the few times he’s held Steve’s wrist to take his pulse, and there was that one memorable occasion when he danced with Nat. But this feels significant somehow. This _matters._

No-one moves. Bucky is just keeping his hand out, touching barely Sam’s arm, and he has his head turned to the side, almost as if he doesn’t quite dare to look at what his hand is doing. Sam is just watching, quietly, saying nothing at all. After a moment, the spell is broken, and Bucky snatches his hand back. Maybe he heard Steve breathing. Steve steps into the apartment, but Bucky is already scurrying away.

It happens again, not long later. This time Steve comes in on the pair of them sitting opposite at the wooden dining table. Sam has his right hand out on the surface, palm down. Bucky is curled forward in his chair, defensively, but his arm too is reaching out, hand stretching towards Sam’s. Steve doesn’t dare to breathe this time in case he breaks the moment again, and a second later, Bucky’s fingers wrap around Sam’s outstretched ones and they’re almost holding hands. Sam is murmuring something in a quiet voice and Bucky actually straightens slightly, unfolding his hunched shoulders. He doesn’t let go. 

That time Steve crept away first before the contact broke, but once he’s looking for it, Steve sees it over and over. Little moments where Bucky reaches out for Sam, touches his arm or his hand. It never looks casual or comfortable; the touches are always deliberate and conscious motions, but it’s physical interaction all the same. He never touches Steve.

Steve eventually asks Sam about it, but Sam is unusually tight lipped. “Sorry, man,” he says, “I promised I wouldn’t say. He’ll let you know when he’s ready.”

It’s two more weeks before Steve finally finds out the answer. He has just returned from a gruelling session at therapy, feeling rung out and restive, when he steps into the apartment to find Bucky standing right in the middle of the room, staring at him. Sam is hovering behind, attentive and out of the way, but Steve only has eyes for Bucky.

“Hey,” Steve asks. “What’s going on?”

“I want--” says Bucky, and stops. Takes a breath. Steve just waits silently. “I want,” says Bucky again, and then adds. “You have to say if it’s okay first. If you say no, I won’t do it.”

“I understand,” Steve says even though Bucky hasn’t actually managed to ask anything yet. He restrains himself from babbling out ' _yes, of course, Bucky, anything you want',_ because that’s not helpful. They all need to know how to say ‘no’ and understand that it’ll be respected. No more assumptions. “Tell me what it is you want and I’ll say if I’m okay with it?”

Bucky breathes again and says, “Hug. I want to hug you. Is it okay?”

“Yes,” Steve says firmly, hardly believing what he’s hearing. “It’s okay. If you want to give me a hug, I’d be very pleased to get one. Could really use a hug today, actually, if you’re in a hugging mood.” 

Steve glances at Sam and sees he is watching carefully but he clearly isn’t surprised by the turn of events. Then Steve realises what he’d been witnessing before, all those touches, the carefully controlled brush of hand on hand or arm. That had been _practice_. Sam had been letting Bucky practice touching him. For this. 

Bucky nods. “Alright,” he says. He steps in. “I’m--” he says, suddenly, then changes direction. “You have to stand still,” he instructs. “Keep your arms down. I don’t like it when--” He gestures with his one arm in a scooping motion. 

“You don’t want me to hug you back?”

Bucky scowls. “No.” He swallows. “If that’s okay. You have to say it’s okay.”

“That’s okay, Bucky. I promise.” Steve straightens up and lowers his hands to his sides, fingers open. Makes his body language relaxed, puts his weight unevenly on his back leg. Little signals that will say _not a threat_ to that feral, ever-watchful part of Bucky’s brain. 

The hug, when it comes, is so fast Steve almost isn’t ready for it. Bucky launches himself at Steve and their bodies collide; Steve almost goes over backwards but he shuffles his foot back and just keeps his balance. While he’s trying not to fall, Bucky’s arm goes around Steve’s waist, pinning his left arm to his side, and Bucky ducks his head right down against Steve’s chest, tucking in his chin like he’s going for a headbutt. Then Bucky squeezes him, quick and urgent and crooked, and objectively it’s a terrible hug, all elbows and unbalance. But Steve also knows it’s the first time Bucky has hugged him, or probably anyone, since a certain morning at the end of January in 1945, just 25,270 days ago, so really it’s the best hug he’s ever had. 

Bucky lets go after maybe three seconds and flees from the room like he’s being chased by angry bears, but they all know that’s alright. Bucky just did a new, terrifying, _amazing_ thing, and he’ll need time alone now to process that. Sam is nearly as over the moon as Steve is. Bucky had told this therapist Ibbsy his new goal - give Steve a hug - months ago and it’s taken all this time and weeks of careful practise with Sam to get there, but he’s done it. He’s hugged Steve. 

It doesn’t change much of course. One hug hasn’t negated the fact that Bucky still can’t stand to be touched, and Ibbsy reminds them it might be years, if _ever_ , before he’ll want any kind of more regular physical contact. But it doesn’t matter. Bucky had a goal, an ambition, all of his own and with Sam and Steve’s help he’s achieved it. Right now, it seems like anything is possible.


End file.
